


Trial and Go Seek

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [15]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Autobot will surrender himself to his peers and stand trial for treason. A second will surrender his purity to a zealot and undergo the most extreme transformation of all. A third will gamble his life, deep in the heart of the enemy territory, in the hope of saving two worlds. In this, the penultimate installment of <i>The Primus Trilogy</i>, Starscream's secret weapons will be unveiled... ancient secrets will be unearthed... and Predacon's masterplan will at last be revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The finger was emerald green and nearly transparent. Years earlier it had been steel but, after a refinery incident, it had been replaced with sculpted Energon. The digit hummed slightly as it passed through the air, and it sizzled on contact with living metal. Not enough to melt one’s chassis, but more than enough to be annoying.

Ultra Magnus felt the finger poke him in the back… twice. Before the third jab, he reached around and grabbed it with his right hand. The digit was larger than his entire fist, but the Autobot’s enhanced strength allowed him to twist it painfully.

The anti-grav skiff lurched as Tidal Wave dropped to his knees. The gargantuan Decepticon clenched his gunmetal jaw tightly – but not enough to stop a grunt of agony slipping out. Pain-wracked optics looked imploringly at Ultra Magnus, but found no hint of mercy in the Earthforce commander’s expression.

“Touch me with this finger one more time, Decepticon,” he growled, “just _one_ more time, and I’ll _bite it off._ ”

Magnus squeezed the digit one last time before he released it. Tidal Wave pulled his hand to his turret-festooned chest, all pretence of dignity thrown to the wind. It was as the Autobot had learned centuries earlier; a bully’s power is tenuous and, once confronted with equal force, non-existent.

He folded his arms and took some satisfaction in his mobility. Magnus had spent the better part of two days chained to a floor but, now, he was free. Tidal Wave was an ever-present escort, yes, but he was not restrained in any meaningful way. Ludicrous as the thought was, Magnus believed his former bonds were not for imprisonment but, rather, to prevent him worsening his near-terminal injuries while he was repaired.

That, of course, made no sense.

Magnus had been captured by a Decepticon raiding force. Decepticons didn’t repair their foes. They didn’t show mercy. And Starscream, of all Decepticons, wouldn’t waste energy on the welfare of a mech he’d spent vorns trying to slag.

Which begged the question: what was _really_ going on?

He calmed himself. Answers would come in time and some, perhaps, might explain his surroundings. The sub-island fortress was unlike any Autobot structure; there were no tunnels, ramps or walkways. One would have to be able to fly to traverse its cavernous interior, which was no doubt the point – even in their choice of lodgings, Decepticons were keen to trumpet their supposed “superiority”.

Much of the place was, like the skiff, mounted on anti-gravity panels. Magnus took in relics and artifacts – trophies, no doubt – from a thousand worlds. Neither the designs nor the scripts were familiar, which concerned him. The Decepticons had been “off the radar” for a decade. For the first time, Magnus wondered where they had been… and what they had been doing.

The skiff pulled alongside a large chamber. A magnetic tether latched onto the skiff and held it fast; Magnus stepped into the chamber. Few lights were on; it resembled the quarters of a mech in his rest cycle. Magnus picked his way through the half-light and looked for some kind of throne. He was not disappointed; a golden chair dominated the centre of the room, its gilded back extending all the way to the ceiling. Starscream lounged across it with a dreamy expression on his face plate.

“Ah, Ultra Magnus,” he crooned. Though it had been more than 10 years since he’d heard that voice, it nevertheless set the Autobot’s circuits on edge. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you? My attentions are… elsewhere… at present, but my other business shan’t take more than a few more klicks.”

While Starscream was dreamy, Magnus activated his communicator and tried to beam out a message. It was no use – even here, at the highest point in the Decepticon fortress, he was too far below the surface to link with his Autobots. He worried how his absence would affect the RID units. If they thought he was dead… well, he shuddered to think what might result. He’d asked Smokescreen to address team morale, but even the master diversionist couldn’t work miracles with frayed tempers.

“Now then,” Starscream said brightly. His back straightened and he fixed his optics on Magnus. “It’s time we talked, Autobot. And I’ll remind you to mind your choice words. You now address the ruler of the New Decepticon Empire.”

Though he’d recently reigned in his arrogance, Magnus knew a confident approach was the best choice, tactically, when dealing with Starscream.

“I drove you and your forces off of Cybertron after a nine million year occupation, Starscream,” he warned. “And I just took down a _god._ ”

“Quite,” the Decepticon replied. “It’s one of two reasons why you’re not shackled. Should you wish to leave this fortress, I would expect there’s little I could do to stop you without mobilising my entire armada. A wasteful exercise for us both, I’d wager. I’d just as soon appeal to your common sense.”

Starscream rolled his thick shoulders and pressed two fingers together. “The second reason for your relative freedom, Ultra Magnus, is the benefit you represent,” he began. “As you’re well aware, a rogue branch of my army has set up operations on Earth. This breakaway faction is not recognised by the New Decepticon Empire…”

“That’d be you.”

“… and its actions are unsanctioned. I have brought my personal forces to this miserable, rancid, smelly, useless waste of a planet – yet _again_ – in order to put an end to the Terrorcons and their religious crusade. To do that as quickly and effortlessly as possible, I require your battlefield know-how and improvisational brilliance. In other words, I want you as my tactician.”

Magnus scoffed. “And here I thought you had no sense of humour.”

Starscream frowned; the expression seemed drenched with blood. “Make no mistake, Ultra Magnus, this is but a temporary measure,” he sneered. “Once Predacon’s fleshy fools have been eradicated, my attentions will once again turn to you pathetic Autobots. But for now, there is mutual benefit in co-operation.”

Magnus arched an eyebrow ridge quizzically. Starscream had always been a schemer, but never in a subtle manner. Too intelligent for a mere solider, too dense to hide his ambitions, the aerial warrior’s failed manipulations were the stuff of legend. Since their last encounter, it seemed, something had changed… there was an assuredness, a confidence, to Starscream that Magnus had not before seen.

“It’s not like you to ask for help,” he said at last.

“On the contrary,” Starscream replied. “It’s not like me to waste available resources.”

Magnus thought of the trophies outside. “Is that the secret of your success – getting the most out of precious little?” He took in the disgusted look on his enemy’s face. “If you want my help, Starscream, you’ll need to meet me halfway. I’m not Optimus Prime… my desire for peace only brings me close to the bargaining table.”

“Yes,” Starscream sighed. “Your outlook is far too close to Grimlock’s in that respect. Always has been.”

“The mark of a good second-in-command,” Magnus said, savouring the insult, “is the ability to balance one’s leader.”

“Must be why I don’t have one,” Starscream replied stiffly. “I _am_ balanced.” He stood up and gestured to the doorway. “Shall we?”

They soared a long way across the fortress. Magnus was very glad his rocket pack had been not only repaired, but refuelled. Now and again, Starscream would look fondly at a trophy, or a piece of technology built into the superstructure. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that,” he sighed.

“Stolen tech and native paintings don’t an empire make,” Magnus said.

“Sadly, they’re all I have to display,” the Decepticon replied. His expression turned nasty. “You see, they’re _all that’s left_ of the worlds consumed by the New Decepticon Empire.”

The Autobot’s sump churned. “You’re bluffing.”

“You wish,” Starscream snapped. “Homelessness forced the Decepticons to be clever. When the orbital base fell apart, for example, we started operating from Tidal Wave’s elongated alt mode. Then I took a good, long look at troop capabilities. We were a sorry lot, weren’t we? So pompous and proud… small wonder you were able to defeat us in one fell swoop.”

He paused by an anti-grav platform. It bore a bean-shaped blob of pink liquid. Bubbles ran through the substance at differing speeds and intervals, changing its viscosity. Magnus realised it was some form of liquid computer.

“Our first conquest,” Starscream breathed. “A world filled with dreaming computers. To exterminate them, I loosed a nightmare I have at my beck and call. You knew him as Dreadwing, long ago, but now he’s more what the humans would call a zombie. Reanimated, lacking a Spark, my pet ‘wraith’ hungers for the very substance of life.

“One day I asked myself ‘why not turn him loose on a planet, and see what he does?’ It was an idle thought, really. But in 24 hours, Dreadwing had absorbed the life essences of half the population. In 48 hours, its dominant race was extinct. In 72 hours, Dreadwing had cleansed the planet of even microscopic life.

“From there, my teams moved in and strip-mined all natural resources. I was so pleased with the efficiency of the whole thing I had them cage Dreadwing and send him on to the next planet. The process began again… and again… and again.”

Anxiety flooded Magnus’ neural network. Fury and disgust made his hands shake and rattled the bolts in his chassis. Starscream spoke of unprecedented genocide with _apathy._ His was not a grandiose announcement nor a cackling, villainous declaration. He’d relayed the news casually, as one would discuss a ream of statistics or a change in weather. Billions of lives had been exterminated, without malice or even passion, by the Decepticons – and they didn’t care.

Starscream patted the dead computer and moved on. “I should, really, thank you for kicking us off Cybertron. That ramshackle old place, as it turns out, held us back. Cast out into the universe as nomads, we have been able to truly prove our might as conquerors – claim our destiny as intergalactic overlords – and build a dynasty undreamt of by small-minded jokes like Megatron.”

“It’s all my fault,” Magnus stammered. “I drove you from Cybertron, loosed your evil into the rest of the universe. I’m responsible for the deaths of hundreds of worlds.”

“Hundreds of _thousands,_ actually,” Starscream corrected. “Our benchmarks were pretty high. After the 50th world, we had manufacturing capabilities. The fruit of 200 worlds gave us an Energon stockpile; 500 meant we could build a new base and move out of Tidal Wave – he was grateful for that, let me tell you. Now, 1216 planets later, I’m confident we can safely move back into the realm of warfare.”

With an energy born of grief and guilt, Magnus rocketed forward and buried his fist in Starscream’s face. The Decepticon hurtled backward, crashing through the dead liquid computer. Shattered pieces tumbled, musically, in the void. Snarling with rage, the Autobot pressed his assault – and was met by the sound of weapons being cocked.

At head height, Slugslinger had him dead to rights. Obsidian’s guns were trained on his back; Snowcat’s cannons flanked his chest. Ramjet and Tankor rode a skiff just metres away – sharing space with Tidal Wave, who grinned smugly. Like any cowed bully, the giant had drawn newfound strength from his similar-minded friends.

“It’s all right,” Starscream said, floating over. He rubbed his jaw ruefully and brushed pink goo from his armour. “It’s fine, really. Ultra Magnus is our guest, after all, and we should be tolerant of his differing ideology. I doubt there’s ever been an alliance that runs truly smooth… patience, my Decepticons, is a virtue.”

“Alliance?” Magnus roared. “You seriously expect me to consider, for even a moment, siding with you after this _depravity?_ ”

“But of course,” Starscream waved the question away. “You want to protect Earth, Ultra Magnus. An alliance with me achieves that goal in three ways. One; the Terrorcons are destroyed.” He placed his hand over his primary fuel pump. “Two; you’ll receive my personal guarantee I shall not loose Dreadwing on this mudball, and that I’ll leave all the tiny little fleshlings alone, so help me Primus.”

A massive hangar loomed before them. Starscream floated over to a keypad on its exterior and entered a coded sequence. The Decepticons guarding Magnus chuckled. Starscream, meanwhile, beamed like a proud parent and swept his arms wide.

“Three,” he continued, “you and your Autobot friends will live long enough to see _these_ in action, and realise how futile it is to defying me.”

Magnus peered into the hangar… and his face plate froze with horror.

\-----

It wasn’t the expression of horror, frozen on Ultra Magnus’ face plate, that unnerved Rodimus the most. Rather, it was his… lack of _soul._

The cavalier peered through the CR chamber’s transparent exterior. He wished his vision could penetrate deeper, through the tough chassis of Big Bot, and grant him a clean look at the Spark within. _Primus knows my so-called training and abilities are proving to be frelling useless!_

Rodimus pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. _Maybe I’m being too hard on myself._ He’d been out of his own CR chamber for less than a day – likely, his systems were taking time to recalibrate. _That’s understandable. I’ve had my share of injuries, but nothing’s ever hurt as bad as Flame Convoy’s big hammer._ He should be patient; let his chassis and processor come into alignment once again. Then he’d have all his abilities back, at full strength.

He hoped he was being too hard on himself because, no matter what he tried, Rodimus could not forge a link with Ultra Magnus’ Spark.

The Autobots told jokes about Ultra Magnus. Affectionately, of course. They called him “the cockroach-in-chief” because he’d survived being slagged by Megatron and torn in half by Flame Convoy. Such jokes betrayed their ignorance –his survival, both times, were miracles. Indeed, the second time had been thanks to Rodimus and Optimus Prime who, despite the distances and dangers involved, used their own life forces to keep Magnus’ Spark aflame.

As a fellow Matrix Bearer, Rodimus _should_ have been able to reach Magnus, right now, and help him heal. He _should_ have been able to, at the very least, make sure the CR chamber wasn’t simply animating a Sparkless husk.

But he couldn’t.

All the young templar could sense was a void; a hollow vessel. The sensation was like tapping on a perfectly hollow sphere. If felt fragile, like it would collapse if he pressed too much. Rodimus couldn’t tell if the Spark was flickering out or struggling to stay alight, and it was driving him crazy.

The door to the med bay opened. “Hey kiddo,” Jazz said, leaning into the room. “You ready for the big dance?”

Rodimus sighed heavily. “Do I have to be?”

Jazz didn’t answer. Rodimus joined his friend and they walked, together, toward Fortress Maximus’ command centre.

Many things had happened while the cavalier recovered. Nemesis Prime had popped up; both he and Flame Convoy had been defeated. Magnus’ near-dead body had been located. Nightbeat’s team had shown up. _Arcee is here, somewhere, though I haven’t seen her since I came back online. Thundercracker, unfortunately, I have seen. Big jerk._ On top of it all were allegations, levelled at a senior Autobot, that Rodimus couldn’t quite believe but wasn’t able to doubt, either.

The command centre had been transformed into a court room. Scattorshot – now the acting commander, due to Magnus’ injuries – presided from the monitor chair. A bank of view screens, to his left, displayed the faces of the jury in absentia – Optimus, Red Alert, Silverstreak and Grimlock. Nightbeat and Checkpoint were seated behind a silver table; Zapmaster ferried defence data to them. Another table served as Armourhide’s prosecution bench; he scowled as Rodimus entered the room.

In the centre of them all, bound with Energon chains and flanked by a fully-armed Smokescreen, stood Downshift. The engineer looked miserable, under-energised and exhausted. His shame was so great that he didn’t know where to look, and alternated between glimpses at the jury and long stares at the floor.

Again, Rodimus sighed heavily. As Jazz moved to join his twin on guard duty, the cavalier shuffled across to the “jury pool”. With Magnus incapacitated – perhaps permanently – Rodimus was expected to take up his station and become part of the Autobots’ “inner circle”. The sudden promotion wasn’t doing anything for his recovery, and served only to increase his guilt and feeling of failure.

_This is purgatory, then. If you can’t save Magnus, kid, you’ll have to take up his burden. And you can start by sitting in judgement on a mech you haven’t trusted for 10 years, but still don’t believe to be a traitor to his own kind. Gee, thanks._

He settled into a chair, the sole juror on-site. The view screens twisted, on thin remote-operated necks, so the other mechs could welcome him. Silverstreak’s expression matched his own – the gunner, too, had seen Downshift’s dark side back on Speedia. Red Alert was inscrutable as usual; Grimlock just looked annoyed.

Optimus nodded gravely to his protégé. The commander’s pain was evident despite his face mask. He did not want to believe one of his oldest troops – one of his closest friends – would take such a drastic step away from the Autobot ideal.

Rodimus knew that confusion only too well. He glanced at the faces around him; his so-called team mates in the RID unit. Downshift a traitor, Jazz a stone-faced guard, Scattorshot a neurotic judge. Magnus dying, Snarl missing, Smokescreen a vision of pent-up fury.

_How did we get this fractured? When did we stray so far from what we set out to do on this world?_

\-----

_When,_ Side Burn asked himself, _did I stray off my path and onto the Path? And how do I get back with an intact chassis and a processor full of information?_

For the first time in 14 years, the Mini-con knew the answer to that question. Now, he was trying to convince himself that answer was wrong… for it was an answer he really, really didn’t like.

Once upon a time, Side Burn had been the toast of Autobot covert ops. Unlike his micro-sized brethren, the crimson mech had opted to choose a side in the Transformer civil war. Crosswise and the rest of the Spychangers had welcomed him with open arms; celebrating his smaller stature as “the power to surprise”. Within vorns, he’d made a name for himself as one of the most daring black ops mechs around. He spent his days in the field and his nights at Macaddams’, marking yet another victory with high-grade oil and top-shelf friends.

Around the time of the Unicron Battles, things had changed. The Autobots had grown concerned about a B-list Decepticon and his passionate rhetoric. They wanted an operative to infiltrate the small, but growing, group and turn it inside out. The B-lister, Predacon, was obsessed with power, so the brass had thought a Mini-con would be the perfect mole. Side Burn would have volunteered for the job anyway – it seemed tailor-made for him. In, data dump, out; drinks all round. The perfect mission.

So it had seemed, so very long ago. These days his hands shook, his transmission coughed and he spluttered when he accelerated. Side Burn was a nervous wreck, thanks to the Terrorcons. The way they sniffed around him… the way they followed scents and instincts… he was convinced discovery was but a matter of time. No one in Autobot High Command had given Predacon enough credit, and now it had come back to bite them. The psychotic lizard was planning something major, something extraordinarily huge… and Side Burn still had no idea what it could be.

Of course, he _could_ find out. The way to do it, however, sickened him.

Side Burn knew his chassis was suitable for the organic grafting process. He could have gone Transmetal at any time but, frankly, the idea repulsed him – as it would any right-thinking being. The Mini-con abhorred any loss of life… besides Decepticon life… and refused to allow innocents to die to make him fleshy. Even if that would ingratiate him with the charismatic cultist.

Besides, wouldn’t it be kind of obvious? Not only had Side Burn constantly refused to undergo the Transmetal process, he’d wailed like a protoform when the late Skid-Z had tried to forcibly reformat him. There was no way Predacon had missed his little panic attack. Even if he had, Battle Ravage or one of the other true-blue psychos would have picked it up and taken to watching him closely.

But that was _before_ Predacon had developed the Transmetal II process.

No one, it seemed, wanted to be the first to undergo the “next stage of Transformer evolution”. Not even Predacon. And who could blame him? Marrying a Spark chamber from beyond the dawn of time to technology jerry-rigged on a backwater world wasn’t any kind of safe science Side Burn had heard about. Still, the zealot was convinced the technological fusion would create an all-new race of super-powered mechs and femmes ready to “walk the Path in glory”. He just lacked a willing volunteer to step into the hyped-up reformatting chamber.

It was the best opportunity Side Burn had received in almost two decades. Nominating himself for the “upgrade” – proving his loyalty to be greater than that of any other Terrorcon – would _have_ to curry Predacon’s favour. Maybe then, he’d be high enough on the food chain to ask for a little briefing on their master plan… taken into the big lizard’s confidence, like Cruel Lock and the others. From there, it’d just be a matter of rescuing Kicker and Misha, then high-tailing it to Ultra Magnus’ crew and making a report to Crosswise, wherever he was.

_Yeah, you can complete your mission, at long last, and go home,_ he told himself. _All you’ve got to do is compromise your morals, go against your beliefs, corrupt your chassis and your Spark and sign the death warrants of a new indigenous life forms! Hey – what are you so upset about? Yeesh!_

He couldn’t talk himself out of it any more. Side Burn could feel the tension in the cathedral; sometimes he could even smell the blood in the air. Predacon’s endgame was fast approaching and, if he didn’t act, the Autobots would have no way of defeating it.

Hateful as it was, Side Burn was about to cross the line into perversion.

\-----

Thundercracker watched Arcee cross the line back into FM-Space. He took a moment to marvel at her design (who’d have thought a ground hog could look so good?) then put on his game face. The femme might have a better insight into his Spark than most, but he’d be damned if he ever gave her a clear picture.

What would be the fun in that?

He leaned back against Fortress Maximus’ entry ramp – bracing his left foot on the flat surface – and kept playing with his wing sword. You’d be forgiven for thinking he just liked fiddling with his primary weapon. Forgiven… and dead. Thundercracker had worked hard to promote sardonic apathy as his default setting, and the ruse had served him well for many a vorn. The truth was a warrior balancing a sword on one finger was a warrior permanently armed. And a warrior permanently armed was always a killing machine, no matter the situation in which he found himself.

Paranoid thinking when surrounded by allies? Perhaps. Then again, they weren’t allies so much as they were Autobots – and that was the _big_ difference.

Arcee pulled up hard and transformed. “You’re it?” the valkryie snapped, her expression hard. “When I said the slag was going down, Thundercracker, I meant it. We need every RID and SWAT mech on deck, right now!”

The ex-Decepticon sniffed, and then shrugged. “Your boyfriends are inside,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re all hung up on liberty and justice and making the universe safe for innocent protoforms.” He let the sword topple off his finger and stab into the ground. “And, of course, persecuting one of their own for having an individual thought.”

“Now is not the time for your garbage, _darling,_ ” Arcee hissed. “If the trial’s started, then Autobot protocol demands it continue uninterrupted. No one in, or out, until a verdict’s handed down.”

That one made Thundercracker laugh. “Small wonder we were able to defeat you, in one fell swoop, back in the old days. You’re a download-only bunch of androids sometimes, you know that?”

Arcee slapped him. The noise of steel-on-steel rang across the grassy plain and rippled the waters of the lake. Thundercracker felt a trickle of oil run down his jaw, from a new split on his metal lip, and growled. Networked they may be but no one, not even his femme, got away with _that_ sort of abuse.

“Put it in neutral,” Arcee said, unaffected by his rage. “If the Autobots have their heads in the sand, then it’s up to you and me to take the Decepticons down before they find any more hidey-holes here on Earth.”

He snatched up his wing sword. “Decepticons?”

Thundercracker listened to Arcee’s story – of a junkyard and holo-matter duplicates – but took in little detail. That familiar red haze began to cloud his vision; his sensors registered a sudden spike in his internal temperature. Long ago, someone had coined the term “warrior’s spirit” and, as he watched steam wreathe from his nostrils, he had to admit it was pretty fitting.

“Decepticons,” he snarled again. The dark warrior leaped into the air and transformed. His sleek, dagger-like alt mode rocketed into the sky and plunged into the side of the mountain. The RIDs had, fortunately, the foresight to install an aerial FM-Space portal. After a jarring few seconds of time displacement, Thundercracker stabbed into the early-morning sky and made his way – at Mach 2 – toward the nearby human city.

He was seething. Mechs and femmes still lumbering under the chains of Megatron’s foolish dream. Transformers, big and small, surrendering to the perverse ideology of a mech long-since dead. Megatron had taken the idea of personal freedom – of liberty from Autobot oppression – and turned it into his blunt instrument. He’d given succour and shelter to hundreds of malcontents, sociopaths and crazed killers just to bolster his army. He’d believed not in the warrior’s way, not in the right of might, but in genocide and devastation and peace through tyranny.

Thundercracker dove low and twisted between the buildings. His engines boomed, shattering windows and warping concrete in his wake. Humans looked up, frightfully, from their early-morning routines. He powered on, following major streets and even looping over the carnal house ruins of downtown.

He had risen above the wreckage of Megatron’s twisted regime. Thundercracker was now determined to emancipate every other being who wore a purple badge… even if he had to _break their heads open_ to do it. And he knew right where to begin: with Starscream. That punk was the only mech with the bearings – and the charisma – to keep the old Decepticon army going. Not for the first time, Thundercracker regretted not slagging the self-absorbed upstart when he had the chance, back when he first trained the “inner circle”.

So there was the plan: kill Starscream, kill any so-called Decepticons who stood with him, convert the rest to the proper way of thinking. Elegant and simple – not that Thundercracker had any idea _how_ he would accomplish all that. He grinned, certain the answer would come in the heat of battle.

The radar pinged; human jet fighters had scrambled to intercept. He ignored them, throwing on his afterburners and making for the city limits. He laughed when his sonic boom knocked the human-built jets off-course. No Terran plane could keep up with him; no Earthling detection system could lock onto his jagged design.

For those reasons, the air-to-air missile that slammed into and demolished his right rear stabiliser was a total surprise.

Travelling too fast to pull up, Thundercracker opted to put down instead. He transformed, his right knee smoking and sparking, and managed to land feet first. Inertia would not be denied; the ex-Decepticon tumbled skid plate over cranial casing for a kilometre or three. His bouncing and tumbling finally deposited him in a wide, grassy field set around a deep, dull brown crater. Dizzily, he registered the location as the former base of the Autobot Earthforce – the spot where Evac had died, and the place where Starscream had…

“It’s a cliché, I know,” a familiar voice screeched, “but I thought it best to come back, here, to where it all began. You know, build my inevitable conquest of the universe on a solid foundation. What better place than the location where I acquired my Force Chip and, with it, the power of the gods themselves?”

Thundercracker executed a tight tuck-roll and came up, wing sword in hand. “You talk too much, rookie,” he rasped, trying to hide his frustration.

“Ever the wizened teacher,” Starscream grinned. The Decepticon emerged from the shadows of the nearby cliff face. “I’ve not been your eager student for a long time, Thundercracker. Things change; I’ve gotten a whole lot better at warfare, for one. You, meanwhile, are getting older and making odd choices – like co-habiting with an Autobot femme. As if that psychotic wrench Chromia wasn’t bad enough!”

Too consummate a warrior to take such obvious bait, Thundercracker dropped into a fighting stance. “If you must babble, tell me how you managed to clip my tail,” he growled. “Even on your best day, you could never shoot me out of the sky.”

“Oh, _that._ ” Starscream held up his right hand. Pinched between thumb and forefinger was a single microchip. A scrap of blue paint clung to one of its scalded edges. “You lost this more than 10 years ago,” he continued. “It came into my possession ever since thanks to a little ‘access for access’ trade.” His grin turned to a murderous leer. “Having it enabled me to bring these fine fellows to life.”

Thundercracker heard metallic feet stamping in time; a death march. A row of short, sleek-looking mechs flanked Starscream; 10 on either side. They were identical… no, _nearly_ identical. While they shared a chassis – boxy heads, low-slung wings, cannons in the place of left arms – there were actually two types, demarcated by their colour schemes.

One group advanced toward the ex-Decepticon. The blue and orange warriors carried with them a palpable sense of dread. Amazingly, Thundercracker felt his sump churn and his will break… something about the noise of their engines was affecting his nervous system; inhibiting his sub-routines. Inducing _fear._

The second group… he couldn’t even keep them in scanner range. Whenever he tried to focus on one of the purple and white mechs, the air around them would shimmer and they would vanish. It took him a moment to realise they were teleporting around him, encircling him in a classic strategic manoeuvre.

“The Dirge units,” Starscream announced, gesturing toward the blue mechs, “and the Skywarp units.” He punched a purple drone affectionately in the arm. It did not respond; its face plate remained blank and emotionless. “Collectively, they’re known as the Seeker Corps. And it’s all thanks to _you,_ Thundercracker. Each and every one is cloned from that little microchip you left behind! You might say they’re you’re children… and, today, they’re here to engage in a little _patricide._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

He was sick and tired of wrestling with guilt.

Ultra Magnus was back in his quarters, and he was _furious_ with himself. He looked around his spartan, Starscream-granted lodgings and wanted to smash it all to pieces. Once again, he was on the verge of losing control – but at least, this time, he knew why he felt that way.

Hours earlier, he’d heard the horrific tale of the New Decepticon Empire. Of genocide unrivalled in all the cosmos. Of system-wide annihilation; the raping of entire galaxies. All to feed a war machine built from the dreams of a dead mad-mech, and now driven by a vainglorious sociopath with delusions of grandeur.

And, for some completely bizarre reason, he’d _blamed himself._

Ultra Magnus was prone to self doubt; he knew that. Throughout his varying existences… Mini-con, fused entity, Primus-forged champion… the Autobot Earthforce commander had wrestled with feelings of inadequacy. Yet he’d finally overcome them – healthily, logically – by surviving his feud with Flame Convoy. No more did Magnus question his abilities, nor shoulder burdens beyond the limits of his responsibility.

Why, then, had he reacted so vehemently to Starscream’s tale? Why had he instantly blamed himself for the deaths of thousands of worlds? Had he not truly overcome his battle with depression – or, worse, had the depression returned, ever-more acute?

“No,” he growled, low in his synthesiser. “I refuse to accept that. I am not the equal of my fears; I am their better. Their master. Which means something else is going on.”

Leaving his surrounds unmolested, Magnus exited the small chamber and leaped into open space. His rocket boosters ignited and carried him through the “tasteful void” that was the Decepticons’ undersea fortress. So confident, was Starscream, that his opposite number would realise the folly of any escape attempt, Magnus was permitted unfettered access to the empire’s Earth domain. Tidal Wave did not even show himself – a wise mood, given Magnus’ current state of processor.

He would not, under any circumstances, ally himself with Starscream. His mind was clear, now; he knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Better to die, his forces in disarray, than to cross the line and side with a mass murderer. Magnus’ principles could not survive such a union and, without his morals, he was not worthy of command. Escape was his one and only goal, but the mystery lay in how to achieve it.

Magnus flew past the remains of the liquid computer. “This was where it happened,” he mused aloud. “Until this point, that moment, I was feeling supremely confident – I’d just felled a living god, for frack’s sake! Then Mr Ego spins a tale of the killing fields and I lose it like a rookie, punch him in the face and go all maudlin. Why?”

Something tickled the back of his processor… something about Tidal Wave’s absence. He cast his scanners around and found the leviathan far below, chatting brutally – but amicably – with Snow Cat. Rumble, so often the butt of Decepticon jokes, passed between the two without incident. The Decepticons went about their work with easy banter, slinging insults without violent retort. _This,_ surely, was the group with whom Starscream conquered numerous civilisations. Yet they were in stark contrast to the ‘cons that had apprehended Magnus and, just hours before, been willing to tear him to shreds over a single punch. The ‘cons he had seen fight and bicker almost constantly.

He was not Grimlock – in Magnus’ world, not every Decepticon was a perverted, slavering beast waiting to slaughter you. Some were mere soldiers following a cause in which they foolishly believed. They had to be, or else their army would have no cohesion – and they’d never have been able to rule Cybertron for nine million years. The wild mood swings they’d displayed, in the space of a day, was likely linked to whatever force had briefly stripped Magnus of his self-esteem.

The Autobot flew on, retracing the path he’d taken with Starscream. At no point did reason leave him, nor did he lose control of his emotions. Calm, cool and collected. Of course, the lack of a mighty drone army, lurking in a hangar, helped immensely – there was no chance of them shocking Magnus, as they had done…

… earlier.

“By the golden spires of Iacon,” he intoned. “The drones!”

\-----

Fighting with yourself? Existential, angst-ridden Autobot nonsense.

Thundercracker had never struggled against his own nature. Indeed, the very idea was anathema to him. The Decepticon way – the _true_ Decepticon way – was to embrace your feelings, dark as they may be, and exist as you were.

The ex-Decepticon had never fought with himself. Until now.

His bastard children, the Seekers, were everywhere. He couldn’t pick a clear flight path; he kept spiralling into wave after wave of the blasted clones. The Dirge units pumped awful sound out of their engines and shredded his audio receptors. The purple Skywarps, damn their chassis, were zipping in and out, taking his paint job with them.

He was a hundred metres off the ground, maybe less, travelling at a sick mockery of his top speed. He was an impossibility of physics: he both sucked and blew. Ashamed, humbled and horrified by his lack of prowess, he waited for the crimson veil to descend. It didn’t; his infamous “warrior’s spirit” lay deep within his frame like an irritating itch but wouldn’t come out to play.

“I suppose you want to know, then, how it’s done,” Starscream chirped.

As if he didn’t have enough to deal with – now his com-channel had been hacked. The ex-Decepticon executed a hair-pin turn across the cliff face; a Dirge missed the turn and exploded against the rock. Its siblings were far more skilled, managing to turn or teleport away. The Skywarps reappeared at 12 o’clock high. Thundercracker had no time to avoid their onslaught – purple lasers sliced through his right wing and rendered him flightless.

“I feel it’s my duty, as a graduating student, to explain” Starscream mocked. “You should be fully appraised, teacher, of how I’ve surpassed you… and _by how much._ ”

Thundercracker transformed and started shooting. Without Zapmaster, his shoulder cannons lacked their full strength but were still frelling lethal. Not that it mattered; his prey was too fast to be shot anyway. They weaved, bobbed and evaporated out of range, somehow managing to sneak in closer all the while.

Such tactical excellence was damned frustrating, because it was every trick Thundercracker used against his enemies. In another time and place, he might have been proud. Right now, he just wanted to kick their skid plates up into their superstructures.

“The Creation Matrix, a favourable Energon bombardment or two mechs with no concept of ‘personal space’,” Starscream lectured. “I like option two, if you’re going to create a Transformer, but it’s impractical in times of war. Ah, but when you have unchallenged domination of countless star systems, however…” he laughed. “Stripping planets provides harvests most bountiful, Thundercracker.”

Close-quarters combat it was, then. Thundercracker drew his wing sword. Eight of the surviving Dirge units, together with nine of the Skywarp drones, encircled him in a wide perimeter. One of each “style” stepped forth and raised their cannon-like left arms. The barrels split open, like long and flat gripper claws, and _snapped._

“Cloning you was simple; bequeathing your scintillating fighting gifts routine. So great was your martial nature that it permeated every linkage, every microchip in your frame. From but the smallest of samples, I could take and distribute everything you’ll ever be.” Starscream’s tone turned nasty. “Like the rest of us, oh great one, you’re no more than the sum of your hardware and software. Replaceable and disposable.”

Thundercracker’s patience had ended. His entire body longed for combat; for an end to the harassment and the constant noise spewing out of the Dirge units. He thrust forward, feinting at the Skywarp. The automaton showed no reaction as it back-pedalled and, right on cue, dropped its face a few metres lower.

“As Shockblast once noted, Sparks are just energy,” Starscream said with obvious glee. “And for once, the cyclops was right. He played around with ergs and atoms, made all sorts of excited, scientific noise about erasing free will and eroding individuality. A load of bunk, really, but in the end he gave me the sort of soldiers emperors dreams about – unflaggingly _obedient_ ones.”

Instinctually, Thundercracker brought up his right knee. Normally, that would have driven a razor-sharp blade into the clone’s face plate, but that stabiliser had been blown off minutes before. A damned rookie mistake, totally unlike him, but he had no time to curse his foolishness. The Skywarp clamped its cannon around his head and shoulder then pulled upward. The Dirge he’d forgotten about – something else he never did – grabbed him by the legs.

“Their super-mechanical powers, though? I haven’t a clue. I was as surprised as… well, as you are right now… when the first Dirge and Skywarp came online.”

A swathe of purple blurred past as the rest of the Skywarp drones piled on; the Dirge units followed. In seconds, every point of articulation in Thundercracker’s body was held fast by limbs bearing powerful warheads.

“One could teleport, and the other had the amazing ability to generate fear, sap willpower and raise terror simply by revving his engine,” Starscream said proudly. “Incidentally, that’s why you’re having so much trouble fighting your kids. They’re breaking your spirit as much as your chassis.” He sighed happily. “I’m not given to sentimentality, but those first two soldiers were things of _beauty._ ”

Even beneath the tangle of bodies, Thundercracker could feel the heat of Starscream’s engines. The arrogant fool had never bothered to curb his emissions, convinced he could out-fly any missile. He peered out the corner of an optic and watched as the so-called emperor’s jet mode taxied in and landed, just metres away.

“My plans had called for two new warriors,” he finished, his tone leering, “but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Cloning the first Skywarp and Dirge gave me _more_ mechs with useful powers and small processors. And I wasn’t lacking for resources, thanks to my Empire. I’m sure you can connect the dots from there, sensei.”

\-----

“First, you accepted me as your teacher. Then, as your saviour. You supped from the bounty of my knowledge and, now… now, you accept the greatest of my gifts.”

Predacon, clad in his full ceremonial robes, gestured grandly. The Terrorcons clustered around him, filling the Transmetal laboratory. Their expressions varied; true believers like Battle Ravage and Cruel Lock were in near rapture, while Chromia and Snarl looked on dispassionately. Wheeljack, at the back of the room, chewed Energon goodies the way humans munched popcorn at their “movies”, ready to be entertained.

Side Burn watched them all through thick glass, feeling like a bug in amber.

His perceptions swam, and he felt dizzy. The Mini-con was badly enervated; he’d spent the night before his “ascension” fasting, and in prayer, with Predacon. _Yay for me, I was right about ol’ lizard lips,_ he thought dully. _He was so thrilled to have a volunteer for his mad science project that he didn’t even stop to question my sudden willingness to “go gooey” for the cause._

Then again, maybe the science wasn’t so mad after all. Side Burn looked up, into the “trunk” of the Transmetal device, and studied the newly-installed driver. The process would be redirected, channelled, through Flame Convoy’s now-empty Spark chamber, and apparently take on the characteristics of that ancient, near godly, metal. If Predacon’s theory was right, Side Burn’s body would not only gain the characteristics of his animal donors – an entire community of Australian frill-necked dragons – but also the properties of alloys and metals that had lain unused since the dawn of time.

It sounded plausible, at the very least – a far cry from Side Burn’s first impressions. Not that it made what he was about to do any easier to accept. He _liked_ his body… blocky though it was… and disliked change. Most of Side Burn’s existence had been spent with the Spy Changers, a group dedicated to maintaining the status quo; the nail that stuck out got hammered down, permanently. To undergo such a metamorphosis, unwillingly, was the worst form of self-inflicted torture.

But for him… and for the sake of the Autobots… there was no turning back.

Predacon had been sermonising the whole time. His voice filtered back into Side Burn’s primary focus. “Though we were betrayed by Flame Convoy, the beast who pretended to be a god, still may we benefit from him,” he announced. “In death, Flame Convoy bequeathed to us that which he purported to provide in life – the essence of divinity; the means to free our inner beasts from our mechanical cages! It is truly fitting that Side Burn is the first to receive this new miracle. As his name denotes, he will blaze a new trail on the True Path, and we may all follow it to greater glory!”

The party must have been over, at that point, because Predacon turned to the ornate console, in the centre of the room, and threw the switch.

Side Burn cried out in fear – the sound was ripped from his synthesiser by the vacuum forming around his chassis. His feet left the ground; the suspension on his front tyres went slack, and he somehow knew his wheels would never touch road again. He was immediately thankful for his near-delirious state, for it was all that allowed him to cope with the sickening sight of his body _digitising._

It was as if he’d been reduced to data and ripped apart. He was dimly aware of high-pitched screeching; likely the poor Earth lizards being eviscerated for his benefit. Above him, the cavernous Spark chamber loomed and pulsed with blood-red light. It seemed to dye his armour a deeper shade of crimson and turn his highlights from tan to orange.

He watched, drunkenly mesmerised, as his arms elongated; a large bump formed where his right fist had once been. His legs and torso thinned out considerably, their mass passing through the spines on his back. They grew, then sprouted six extensions on either side – two rising up, the others casting down toward the floor. More steel… odd steel, metal that seemed to move and stretch like living tissue… flowed between the spines and linked them, like the membrane of a mammal’s wings. His hips bucked; both they and his ankles sprouted legs. The bump of his right hand took savage life as a reptilian face and jaw; his left arm trailed away, whip-like, into a long and lashing tail.

Last of all, Side Burn felt his face change. The mask-like plate that had served, for so long, to hide his emotions was cast aside, and his new mouth filled with razor-sharp fangs. Golden optics stared from out a golden face.

The chamber hissed open and he tumbled onto the floor. Predacon was at his side in less than a second, as was Cruel Lock. Gingerly, the much-larger beast mechs plucked him from his stupor and set him on his new, talon-festooned feet. He felt spindly and insubstantial; at the same time, he instinctively knew his frame boasted more power than ever before. Unlike previous technorganic Transformers, Side Burn had no patchwork appearance… no Frankenstein mess of flesh and metal. His new form moved and rippled like the fittest musculature but, all over, flashed with the strength and beauty of steel.

Predacon nodded to him. Side Burn understood and initiated his transformation. It was not what he, nor anyone else, had been expecting. Light spilled from out every metallic pore of his new frame. Though he had gears and plating, none of them shifted or became visible; his limbs did not ratchet from one position to another. Instead, his torso _flowed_ out of robot mode and _congealed_ into beast mode. Where once had stood a technorganic robot now roared a brilliant, red, Transmetal II dragon.

The new Side Burn flexed his burnished wings and belched fire into the air, drawing the applause of the feral masses he so despised, and longed to bring down.

“He has ascended,” the devout announced reverently. Wheeljack was coughing up traces of Energon, his shock evident. Even Chromia and Snarl were affected. The white wolf especially – his optics bored holes in Side Burn’s nearly-invulnerable armour, and they glowed with solar intensity. It was as if he’d seen it all before, somewhere.

Outwardly, Side Burn showed off for his supposed allies. Inwardly he mourned his loss – the greatest he had ever known, in all his years. It would be worth it, however, if he played his cards right from this moment on. For the first time in 14 years, Side Burn had the _raw power_ to play the Terrorcons at their own game. Now, he just needed to knowledge to unseat Predacon before the lunatic’s endgame began.

\-----

If the Autobot justice system was a game, then Rodimus didn’t want to play anymore.

He loathed the stuffy formality of the military court. Like anyone who’d come up through the academy, he knew why the Autobots were saddled with such a pompous, overbearing method of trying their own. It was one of the few traditions left from the days before the civil war, before even Operation: Volcano.

It had worked fine in peace time, when the biggest war crime was disobeying a senior officer during an off-world mission. Megatron and the original Decepticons had shone spotlights on the system’s flaws, nearly killing Grimlock in the process. Yet the judicial process remained in place, unchanged, out of respect for the late Scavenger. He’d told Optimus, with his dying breath, that “the old ways can still work”. The newly-minted Prime had taken the warhorse at his word, and held onto this one bastion of a bygone age.

Jurors weren’t allowed to speak to one another while the evidence was being presented. The prosecution went first, presenting its whole case, followed by the defence. Judges had no role – aside from keeping order – until it was time to pass sentence; he or she had to come from the accused’s own unit. And, to ensure every mech who served was treated equally, hearings were sealed and no audience permitted.

That put far too much reliance on automated systems and skeleton crews – like Arcee and Thundercracker, who were missing from the courtroom – for Rodimus’ liking. Still: how often did the Autobots have to try one of their own, anyway?

Downshift’s trial was the first Rodimus could remember.

Armourhide made, unsurprisingly, an incredibly irritating prosecutor. The diminutive commando paced the communications room as he spoke, spinning one of his forearm wheels with a finger.

“Gentlemechs,” he began, “no one likes da word ‘betrayal’. It sticks in ya synthesiser; decent mechs an’ femmes never utter it. By its very nature, it’s a stinking ‘con word, not one dat has a place in da vocabulary o’ any self-respectin’ Autobot.

“The trouble is, today, we’re dealin’ with an Autobot who’s got no self-respect. He ain’t got no respect for any o’ you, either. We’re here today to judge da actions of a mech who _used_ ta be our friend, _used_ ta be someone we could trust, _used_ ta be reliable an’ above reproach.”

He shot a nasty glare at Downshift. The engineer, bound and guarded, seemed to shrink further into his own chassis. “Downshift ain’t been any decent kinda mech fer a long time,” Armourhide continued. “Bein’ less than decent ain’t no crime; it’s when dat lack o’ respect and courage turns ya into a slagging Decepticreep dat it’s an issue fer us.”

Rodimus watched Nightbeat, at the opposite table, bristle. He knew the detective wanted to leap to his feet and argue for Downshift; to take issue with Armourhide’s slander. But he could not; the rules of the system prevented objections during the opening statements. Besides, Rodimus wasn’t sure an objection would change his stance; though obviously biased, Armourhide was so far making sense.

“Dis is all really simple – as open an’ shut as da grille on my chest,” the commando said. “Downshift’s been consortin’ wit da enemy. He made it through a mess o’ battles without a scratch, all thanks to his flesh-stealin’ buddies. He tried ta kill us all by usin’ the Star Sabre – a restricted weapon, may I remind you – against Nemesis Prime. He sent Ultra Magnus t’ be mortally wounded, and Snarl to his death.”

Rodimus checked himself. _There’s no body,_ he said inwardly. _That means there’s still hope Snarl’s alive. I wish I held as much hope the pooch hadn’t turned Terrorcon on us, which is the most likely scenario._

“Most damnin’ of all, gentlemechs, is da prosecution’s main piece ‘a evidence: a data cylinder taken from the accused’s own laboratory. Its contents – which will be player fer you in due time – prove Downshift to be, beyond reasonable doubt, a sympathiser to da Terrorcon cause and, we will argue, a traitor to da Autobot army. Thank you.”

Scattorshot, presiding from the command chair, nodded gravely. “Call yer first witness,” he drawled.

“I call Divebomb,” Armourhide grinned, relishing the moment.

Jazz left the room and returned, a moment later, with the Terrorcon prisoner. Rodimus felt his emotions flip-flop again; Divebomb’s arrival showed the sheer lunacy of the trial. The metallic condor was wrapped in bonds designed by Downshift; the oxygen-regulating system covering his face plate and ventilation system had also been built by the emerald engineer. Had Downshift been a traitor, as accused, he could well have encoded a time-delay release into the restraints, allowing the Terrorcon to burst free and kill everyone in the room _before_ Thundercracker or Arcee could notice.

Though Rodimus watched carefully, there was no suggestion Divebomb was anything other than immobilised and incredibly annoyed. That was a vote in Downshift’s favour… wasn’t it? Or had the engineer merely outsmarted them all?

 _I hate this,_ Rodimus growled.

\-----

Thundercracker struggled, but his creepy doppelgangers held him fast. He managed to free his face from a Skywarp’s clamp and get a clear look at Starscream. Surprisingly, the insufferable braggart had stayed in jet mode. Normally he’d have rushed over and thrust his pointy nose right in Thundercracker’s optics by now.

The red and white jet’s canopy hissed open and revealed two humans – a male and a female. She was fairly standard-looking, as humans went, but the male caught Thundercracker’s attention. He was impossibly _beautiful_ , attractive beyond the capabilities of Terran evolution. With shoulder-length hair and stylish stubble, he was both masculine and feminine without being androgynous; had mannerisms that were slightly foppish while carrying steely weight. Jazz would have dubbed him “a boy who’d be upside yo head an’ look good doin’ it”.

“Alexis,” the man called… in Starscream’s voice. “You should see this.”

A holo-matter duplicate. And not just any old avatar, either – Starscream’s avatar. Thundercracker couldn’t help but laugh. His foe was so self-absorbed, so incredibly conceited, that even his disguise had to be nearly ethereal! The idiot considered himself the most beautiful thing in the sky; clearly he wanted that designation on the ground, too.

It was another major difference between teacher and student. Thundercracker had initially resisted installing the holo-matter software. Then he’d procrastinated over the design of his doppelganger. In the end, he’d settled for a normal-looking sort of a human… at least in his opinion. Arcee had told him his puppet was a “real brooding loner”, a “vampire anti-hero type” – whatever the frell that meant. All he knew was the damn thing was riddled with glitches. Every now and again, its hair colour would inexplicably change from brown to blonde, and it would develop a British accent.

“Playing human, Starscream?” Thundercracker growled. “Seems beneath you.”

The woman tutted. “He’s like all the rest, Christopher.”

Starscream’s avatar nodded. “It’s why I’m told you to ignore the ranting of our enemies, dear,” he said, glaring dangerously at Thundercracker. “So great is the arrogance of these aliens they cannot accept we humans, clad in transforming armour, can best them in combat.” He curled an arm protectively around her and pointed to Thundercracker’s wing. “Their deception knows no bounds – now they steal our proud insignia!”

“What the frell are you talking about, you glitching idiot?” Thundercracker snarled. “You’re a Transformer, the same as me! You’re yapping from out a holographic puppet – and a pretty unrealistic one at that!”

Alexis tutted again. “Your unmanned drones _were_ necessary,” she whispered sadly, “just like the car and motorcycle you gave me. Lives could have – no, would have – been lost if you and your team had gone up against this… _thing._ ”

Thundercracker slumped. “Fracking humans,” he spat. “So dumb that you’ll believe anything.”

Starscream’s puppet waved dismissively. “Seeker units: subdue, but do not kill, the prisoner. We’ll take him back with us. This world is already starved for resources – better we recycle this heinous alien for the betterment of our planet then simply eradicate him. After all; we’ve not come this far by squandering our resources, have we?”

Alexis turned and kissed him on the solid-light cheek. Thundercracker sighed – dupes were so well-made they could even fool a human’s sense of touch. “You’re a marvel,” she said breathily, arching closer to his dark-suited form. “Always thinking.”

The doppelganger winked at Thundercracker. “I am,” he agreed. “It must be why I’m always one step ahead of everyone else.”

\-----

Ultra Magnus finished up his preparations. He was certain of his theory – that the Dirge units generated a sound capable of stripping away one’s willpower. He was _also_ certain Starscream had failed to properly gauge that ability, and that the chaotic nature of the Decepticons could only be a result of exposure to the Dirge drones.

Without realising it, Starscream was undoing all he’d achieved in the name of Decepticon unity – because he didn’t keep his clones in a sound-proof hangar. It made for a chaotic environment; an emotional war zone. And it was on the field of battle that Magnus most excelled; where his gift for improvisation came to the fore.

Sometimes, however, improvisation needed a little help.

Ever since his “death”, Magnus had been fiddling with his internal systems. His “black box” recorder was now something he could access consciously, as well as in the event of terminal stasis lock. The Autobot commander had spent the last few minutes recording his own voice onto the device; calm, measured tones reminding him of his plan, his mission, and of the need for restraint and courage.

It was rigged to start – and _keep_ – looping should his neural net register fear or doubt. Even if the Dirges could override his conscious mind, they could not influence an incredibly annoying recording. It would keep him focused; the rest was up to his usual talents. He grinned tightly. It was going to be a _very_ bad day for the Decepticons.

Clear-headed, Magnus could already see four or five ways to effect his escape. Being surrounded by water only helped matters. Most of the Decepticons would be stunned and useless in a sudden deluge. He’d already proven he could handle Tidal Wave; the Sea Attack Mini-cons would scarcely be a problem. Shortround was an unknown quantity but he was also a hovercraft, and therefore easy to pick off. Magnus’ biggest problem was making sure he escaped in a way that didn’t rouse Dreadwing from his slumber. If that happened, Armageddon would soon follow.

A little more patience, it seemed, was required. Patience and scouting. Magnus travelled the bottom edges of the base in his vehicle mode, scanning the smooth metal. Slugslinger ducked low, at one point, to ask what he was doing; the curt reply “exercise” was enough to send the marks-mech on his way. Mini-cons that Magnus did not quite recognise… a submarine, a double-craned construction vehicle and a transport plane… looked at him quizzically, but did not follow. For a moment, he thought they were larger than the standard Mini-cons; more along the lines of the body his own Spark had once inhabited.

Magnus was bothered by two things. The first was the number of “sleeping” Decepticons he passed. Demolishor was napping in an unloaded torpedo tube, Shockblast slumbered at his desk, Obsidian was in rest-mode on a hovering platform. Magnus understood eight-hour periods, offline, would have been useful in their days of scrounging. Surely, the Decepticons were overstuffed with Energon now. What purpose did such conservation serve? Even the Autobots didn’t ration energy to such an extreme degree.

His second concern was the shape of the base. From his wandering, he could tell the lower part of the fortress was shaped much like the jaw bone of an animal – wider at the rear, smoothing down to a cleft-like point at the front. But one of the “joints” was shallower than the other. A secret room, perhaps, like the torture chamber?

He approached the shallow section and reached out to touch it. To his surprise, the section turned transparent; it was yet another hologram. Obviously, the room beyond was designed to remain out of sight, but had to be accessed easily and quickly. He could scarcely imagine what sort of purpose such a chamber would serve… what was so valuable that it had to be kept a secret, but so useful it had to be easily used – perhaps even at a moment’s notice? He peered inside.

“What in the name of Alpha Trion?”

On a slab of cold, grey steel lay Soundwave, the Decepticon communicator. The midnight blue giant’s chassis was obscured within a nest of network cables, data ports and wiring; metres of fibre optics snaked from his form and into vast banks of computers. View screens blurred with information; Soundwave’s chest cavity – repository for all the data he obsessively collected – hummed with activity. The mech himself “slept” through it all, blissfully unaware of the mental autopsy he was undergoing.

Magnus felt a tug on his consciousness; unbidden, his Planet Key materialised in his hand. Like Evac before him, Magnus bore the blue Key – a device linked not only with Cybertron’s legendary archive, the Underbase, but also the knowledge and wisdom of Primus itself. The Key could absorb data from all parts of the universe and grant knowledge undreamed of to its owner… a list of mechs than, for many a millennia, had included Soundwave.

“He’s a _library,_ ” Magnus breathed. “All this technology… all these advances… everything Starscream’s done, these past 10 years, has come from Soundwave. He absorbed millions of gigabytes of information over millions of years – secrets from all over the universe; secrets to which Starscream now has access. The New Decepticon Empire is built not only from the ashes of living worlds, but by strip-mining the processor of its most loyal solider!”


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t that he had biological components, Side Burn thought sleepily. It was that his Transmetallic body had biological _attributes_ … and, at times, needs.

Sleep was very different to a power-saving shutdown. As he drifted out of his slumber, the Mini-con dragon felt truly rested; re-energised in a way an infusion of Energon simply couldn’t match. Mind, body and, yes, even Spark, all felt replenished. He stretched his long neck from out the cocoon of his wings and had an experimental yawn. Oxygen rushed into lungs that were as much air-hose system as alveoli.

He opened one of his brilliant yellow eyes… and found himself staring at Predacon.

Not, not staring at – _being_ stared at. The self-styled priest of the True Path was kneeling next to Side Burn’s bunk, gazing reverently at the dragon’s sleek, crimson bodywork. It was an unsettling moment, to say the least.

“Oh, how I wish I could hold my serpent’s tongue,” Predacon cooed. His head lolled to one side, as if he were intoxicated. “To think I wasted a word as perfect, as all-encompassing, as ‘Transmetal’ on these flabby, shabby forms!” He thumped a fist against his technorganic chest. “Now I see that those of us who walk the Path are not the end, but the chrysalis stage… pupae, in the grand scheme of life eternal… moving ever so slowly toward the beauty you, and you alone, personify!”

Side Burn stretched and yawned again. “Blasphemy?” he asked lightly. “From you?”

It was the sort of comment that, once, he’d not dared have made. But, in the hours since taking on his new form, Side Burn had experienced a surge of confidence and courage. Fourteen years hidden amongst the Terrorcons – beasts and fanatics, one and all – had broken his will and crushed his spirit. He’d felt weak, powerless, unable to cope with the situation into which he’d been inserted. Now, his small frame swelled with resolve.

An undercover operative to the end, Side Burn knew the dangers of overconfidence and recklessness. This was different, though. It was… Zen. Peace. Cosmic apathy. A calm born of ability and faith in one’s self. It was as if the change he’d undergone – a metamorphosis he’d railed against so desperately – had been necessary not only for his mission but for _himself_ , for his growth as a being.

“Not blasphemy,” Predacon chuckled affectionately. “No. Faith rewarded.” He reached forward and patted the Mini-con. Then he rose, and began to pace the room. “For all your intelligence, Side Burn, I doubt you can fully appreciate how much your decision to volunteer for the Transmetal II process meant to me. Yes.”

Side Burn transformed, biting his steel lip as a wave of nausea passed through him. Morphing from one shape to another, rather than truly transforming, would take some getting used to. “Maybe you could explain?”

“It’s not a difficult position to attain, granted, given the psychotics and doubters with whom I have surrounded myself,” Predacon said. “Even so… you’ve always been my favourite disciple, Side Burn.”

Newfound confidence be damned; Side Burn was caught off-guard and left speechless.

“I see your shock and, more, I understand it,” Predacon continued. “The Path we all walk is, for me, a lonely one. Those who choose to tread it with me do so, initially, out of self-interest. Oh, they come around in time, transform themselves into the willing instruments of our religious fervour.

“Then there’s _you_ , Side Burn. A Mini-con who came to me with no agenda, no goal, no motive other than knowledge. A decorated Autobot undercover agent who turned his back on that dark and dismal world, armed only with the hope that there could be a better way for all Cybertronians.”

The dragon stammered. All this time, Predacon had _known_ he was a spy?

“Of course, for a time I suspected you to be a wolf in my then-new flock; a traitor come to destroy us from the inside out. But vorns passed with you in my ranks and, throughout, our enemies grew no wiser as to even our smallest plan. Your loyalty to the Path proved sound. Yes.”

Side Burn thought he’d done nothing, for almost two decades, but fail in his mission. Instead, he’d succeeded in feigning a loyalty deeper and stronger than even the most cynical gaze could penetrate! Like the extinct beast whose form he’d taken, Predacon could not see what was in front of him until it moved against him.

“And, more, your faith proved greater than mine,” he groused. The zealot actually looked humbled. “While I raced ahead, adopting this… lesser… form, you held fast to your belief that there could be a better way. You waited until the Transmetal technology was _perfect_ , until it was _divine_ , and then partook of its bounty! Oh, the favour you have shown me this day, my precious Mini-con friend! The _wisdom_ I have learned from you! I shan’t forget it, that I swear, even though I cannot repay it.”

Flesh and metal though he may be, Side Burn was still an undercover agent to the core. And, in Predacon’s ravings, he found the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear.

“Actually…” he said, deliberately sounding hesitant. “There is _one_ thing you could do, my lord, if you felt me worthy enough.” He feigned reluctance and shame. “Tell me our master plan?”

The Transmetal tyrannosaur stood up. His posture was stiff and rigid; his fists were clenched. Side Burn tried not to flinch, though he was convinced he was about to be attacked. Instead, Predacon took a few steps back then sat, cross-legged, on the floor. The tension ebbed from his body and, again, he appeared benevolent.

“No one else,” he intoned. “No one else have I shared this with – not even Cruel Lock. No. But you, my shining one – my greatest success, Autobot to Transmetal II! – you, of all beings, have earned the right to know everything.”

He blinked and took a deep breath. “When we are done here, Side Burn,” he began, “both Earth and Cybertron will be a paradise. _One_ paradise.”

\-----

Bulkhead ran his fingers along the ground. “Dust,” he announced. “Lots and lots of dust. Pretty much like the rest of this world, I’d expect. Oh, what a _paradise_.”

He could feel Scavenger’s optics boring into his back. “No one asked you to tag along, little mech.”

The former Wrecker looked up… and _up_ … at the massive Grounder. “Optimus Prime did,” he corrected his supposed ally, “right before he went off to serve as a juror. You’re the only one too dim to recognise him as your leader, crane-face.”

The bigger mech snapped his claw blades menacingly. Bulkhead wasn’t intimidated; he could barely stand the self-righteous, stuck-up demolitions expert. Okay, so they were separated by millions of years and hundreds of worlds, but the big freak had the _nerve_ to use the same name as Bulkhead’s much-missed commanding officer. That meant the tan-and-orange giant would never earn the commando’s respect.

“Why would Strika have come here, anyway?” Scavenger mused.

“Likely to get away from you dumb ‘Vehicons’,” Bulkhead muttered under his breath.

The unlikely duo was well beyond the borders of Gigalonian civilisation. Had it not been for the enormous mesas that broke up the horizon, one sector of the wastelands would have been indistinguishable from another. Bulkhead had been told that, in the “old days”, rogue groups of Flyers would roam the region and cannibalise unsuspecting Grounders. He didn’t believe the tall tales – Grounders were racist to a mech and would say anything to justify their irrational hatred of the planet’s smaller Transformers.

“Being serious for a minute,” Bulkhead said aloud, “why does the presence of so much dust bother me? It feels… wrong.”

An odd look crossed Scavenger’s face plate. It took Bulkhead a moment to recognise it as grudging admiration. “You _have_ been taking notice, these past 10 years,” the behemoth grumbled. “Gigalonia’s got two natural states: hard rock and mud. If there’s dust in the air, it means someone’s been doing some mining nearby.”

Bulkhead raised an eyebrow ridge. “Around here? I thought the ground was supposed to be too dense for even your bombs to penetrate.”

“ _Supposed_ to be…” Scavenger agreed, trailing off. With an unbearably loud clanking of gears, the Grounder transformed into his vehicle mode. His chest plate rose up on an orange “neck” assembly and became a steam shovel; radar antennae swivelling on either side. “Yup, the ground’s denser than your leader’s skull,” he sniggered. “But… hey, slag on me.”

“What?”

Scavenger’s shovel nodded at the closest mesa. “Readings say it’s hollow,” he said quietly. “Which doesn’t make any sense. Who’d want to excavate a mesa? I know the Flyers want the mud off the outsides of ‘em, but what’s to be found on the inside?”

Bulkhead craned his neck and took in the rock edifice, hundreds of times taller than even Scavenger. “What’s say we go find out?”

The Autobot transformed to his helicopter mode and made for the mesa. Scavenger followed, his thick tank treads not even leaving a mark in the rock-hard surface of the planet. The closer they drew, the more evidence they saw of recent mining operations. Around the base of the mesa, lower than Bulkhead’s eye line, were finger scratches.

“Not Flyers,” Scavenger said, once they’d been pointed out to him.

“Something else, then,” Bulkhead agreed. “Oh no…”

“What?”

Bulkhead frowned. “Back on our world, the competing ‘race’ is called the Decepticons. We figured them to be beaten back – nearly wiped out by warfare – but the truth is no one’s seen them in 10 years. I’ve heard rumours, from Earth, that a bunch of ‘cons have been causing havoc.”

“So you’re thinking they might be here, too,” Scavenger nodded. He chuckled. “Like you said, let’s go find out. You little critters annoy the frell out of me but I’m told I’m not allowed to slag you. If we come across a bunch of small-bots you consider enemies, well, maybe I can vent some old frustrations.”

Bulkhead gritted his dental plates. “You and me both. Come on.”

\-----

Information darted across myriad screens at a break-neck speed. It moved too rapidly for Ultra Magnus to keep track of – even with the blue Planet Key in his hand. He caught only snatches, here and there… brief glimpses of “the five faces”, the “Destron death cult” and a “vast, star-spanning vessel”… as information was siphoned from out the prone form of Soundwave.

“You and me both,” Magnus addressed the slumbering communicator. “Past and present holders of this Key. But that’s where the similarities end. I access the Underbase when I need to; you sought to absorb it all, contain it, within your own body. You’re an addict, Soundwave. Whether it’s every body on a battlefield or all the data in a processor, you can’t stop until you’ve claimed it all.”

The midnight blue giant didn’t respond.

Magnus willed the Key back into subspace and walked carefully around the room. Even with a Primus-enhanced chassis, he believed Soundwave would ever be his equal, and wasn’t eager to wake the enormous ‘con and throw down. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he found Laserbeak curled up, in his alt mode, in a corner of the room. Like its master, the buzzard was connected to a siphoning computer.

All the pieces were coming together. Starscream had been strip-mining Soundwave’s memories – and Laserbeak’s backed-up files – since the Battle of Iacon. Energon rationing had created an excuse to force his mechs to “sleep” once a day. In turn, that gave him eight uninterrupted hours to plumb the depths of his lieutenant’s processor. Soundwave, egotist that he was, would have jumped at the offer of a private barracks laden with hi-tech equipment, never suspecting its true purpose.

“Talk about a honey trap,” Magnus whistled.

The communicator had spent aeons in a trance, just listening to the secrets of a million worlds. That made him an invaluable resource. For example: the Decepticons hadn’t gone looking for energy-rich systems to plunder – they’d _known_ where to find them, thanks to Soundwave. Advances in Speedian science had given rise to Starscream’s clone army. The fortress showed hints of Gigalonian architecture and weaponry. For as many worlds as he’d plundered physically, Starscream had razed hundreds of thousands more without ever entering their orbit.

“He might have been the most formidable Decepticon leader ever,” Magnus mused, grinning, “if he hadn’t invited _me_ into his base.”

Magnus scanned the room. He didn’t recognise any of the technology, but that scarcely mattered. Even the most scientifically unsound mech could swap some cables and uncouple a few data ports. He didn’t want to shut off the flow of information entirely, just… retard it, somewhat. The less successful his sabotage, the better served his plans.

Having well and truly crossed Starscream’s wires, Magnus crept out of the chamber and reactivated its holographic wall. No one saw him leave. Quickly, he transformed and resumed his circuit of the base’s floor. He had driven more than 300 metres before he crossed paths with a Decepticon – Snow Cat, polishing a mirrored section of floor. No doubt it was some kind of punishment.

Magnus changed course, heading directly for the dim-witted berserker. He honked his horn, just metres before impact. With a cry and a yelp, Snow Cat dove out of the way. The Autobot squealed his tyres on the floor, leaving behind a thick, smoking trail of black rubber. All of the ‘cons hard work was ruined in one fell swoop.

Snow Cat swore loudly and jumped up and down. _Perfect,_ Magnus thought. _Anything to keep the aggression levels, in this pressure cooker, on the rise. By the time any of you idiots realise what’s going on, it’ll be far too late to stop me._

\-----

Predacon reached behind his back and produced the green Planet Key. “This artifact connects me with the Plasma Energy Chamber,” he said. “More, it connects me with the 13 and grants insight into the more… esoteric… items they left behind.

“Within the womb-like depths of our home world I located chambers, and carvings, and inscriptions pre-dating not only our civilisation, but the exile of the 13. One of those tablets had been inscribed by the largest of the 13… the mighty Metroplex.

“Like Fang Wolf, Metroplex was something of a… prodigal son. He and our ‘god’ had an adversarial relationship. Adversarial, yet born in honesty; like any father and son, they argued from a place of mutual respect and hope for the future. Thus to the giant did the god entrust his deepest secret: a massive vessel that, when docked with his planet mode, would permit control of all Primus’ functions without activating his consciousness.

“Primus intended that craft be used only in the most dire of emergencies. It feared Unicron, or one of the Chaos Bringer’s minions, would seize the four Keys and corrupt the Lord of Light. The god knew Metroplex – the only one of its creations who dared to disagree – was the least likely to abuse such a powerful gift. You see, the device – dubbed the Omega Lock – was…”

“A manual over-ride,” Side Burn interrupted.

“Yes,” Predacon beamed, clearly pleased. “Precisely what that fool, Megatron, had been searching for – even though he didn’t know it! But I did. Yes. Not straight away, of course; it took many cycles to decipher the tablet. Metroplex saw to it that his epitaph was not only well-hidden, but difficult to understand. I suppose it was his hope he’d live to see the lock _never_ used, and left the inscription behind out of prudence.”

Side Burn nodded, understanding. “Where as the ship that carried Flame Convoy to Animatros became a den of beasts,” he murmured, “and Override’s the core of a raceway, Metroplex’s vessel was the Omega Lock itself.”

Predacon stood up and gestured grandly. “For uncounted millennia, the Omega Lock has lain dormant in the mud of Gigalonia,” he crowed, his volume rising with every word. “Until today, when I shall pluck it from the sands of time and cast it into the darkness of space, the better to execute my will!”

The Mini-con shook his head. “What good,” he asked slowly, “is having control over a being as large as Primus? There’s no way a crew – even one numbering in the thousands – could hope to operate so complex a piece of machinery!”

“Even the most complex piece of machinery,” Predacon answered, “can be pointed in a direction and _steered_. That is all Reptilion has to do. Why else send a propulsion expert to a world without space travel? My disciple will fly the Lock back to Cybertron and, there, use it to initiate a half-transformation. Primus’ mighty cannons will serve quite well as engines. Yes. Once fired, those boosters will be more than adequate to speed the planet on its way to its final rendezvous.”

“Which is where?”

Predacon looked genuinely shocked by his lackey’s ignorance. “Here, of course,” he said. “Reptilion’s orders are simple: he is to bring Cybertron into Earth’s orbit so that the final phase may begin… and everything may, at last, be _changed._ ”

\-----

“Where I come from,” Scavenger bellowed over the din, “this is what’s known as a false bill of goods!”

“Why don’t you shut the frack up,” Bulkhead roared, his frustration boiling over, “and just shoot some of these creepy little maggots?”

The duo had barely made it inside the mesa before being set upon by a horde of irate Flyers. Bulkhead’s status as the “bringer of Energon” didn’t seem to matter, anymore – the spider tanks had attacked as one massed horde, climbing all over them and stabbing with glowing blades. Every now and again, one of the blue mechs would fire off a round of sonics that would carve through Bulkhead’s processor. His equilibrium was so badly shot that he couldn’t take off, even though air support would have been very useful.

“Oooh,” sang a mocking voice from above. “Big zzzscaredy ‘bot Bulkhead’zz not having fun with Buzzsaw’s friendzzz. Poor zzzily Autobot. Him go zzzplat now!”

Bulkhead only just managed to avoid the Terrorcon’s missile salvo. Purple rockets added to the general nightmarish conditions within the downed star cruiser. That was, after all, what the thing in the mesa was – Bulkhead was sure of that. Scavenger had managed to choke out his theory – that it was the long-lost ship Metroplex had used to come to Gigalonia – before a bunch of Flyers tried swarming down his throat.

Reluctantly, Bulkhead had to admit Scavenger’s theory made a lot of sense. The presence of a Terrorcon was puzzling, though. Collecting historical artifacts was Megatron’s thing; since when did Predacon want antiques?

Something shimmered in the air before him. No longer willing to give the benefit of the doubt, Bulkhead lashed out with his rotor sword. The cloaked creature let out a raspy squeal as its stealth field dropped.

“Reptilion,” Bulkhead exclaimed. “Curse me for a fool… that was _you_ , weeks ago, running across the river of mud while you were camouflaged!”

The technorganic lizard opened its mouth, as if to answer… and vomited a glob of neon green acid at the Autobot. Bulkhead managed to deflect most of it with his sword as Reptilion disappeared into the chaos.

“I have to tell you that this really, really sucks,” Bulkhead snapped.

“You talking to yourself,” Scavenger raged, hurling entire claw-fuls of Flyers at a wall, “or me?”

“Cute,” the Autobot spat. Obviously, someone had noticed his habit of speaking with the ghosts of deceased Transformers. “Think of that one yourself, or did it come from…”

“Strika!” Scavenger exclaimed. “Bulkhead, she’s over here! I… I think she’s dead!”

Bulkhead raised his hands and initiated a half-transformation, bringing his vehicle mode machine guns to bear. He opened fire, raking the vile mass of insect-bots with depleted uranium jackets. A path quickly formed as Flyers scrambled to get out of the way; in seconds, Bulkhead had joined Scavenger next to a desiccated, partially-dismantled junk pile that looked a little like the surveying femme.

“Ugh,” he muttered. “The legends of cannibalism have some truth, then.”

“I’m getting her out of here,” Scavenger growled. “Dead or alive, there’s no way I’m leaving her to be picked clean by these _freaks!_ ”

The Autobot, still firing at their enemies, shook his head. “What about this place? Whatever the Flyers are planning? We can’t just…”

Scavenger silenced him with a venomous glare. “On Gigalonia,” he rasped, “life is hard, and life is short. You could go at any time in a hundred different ways – rock slide, cave-in, power shortage. But no one, _ever_ gets left behind.” His voice rose to a grief-stricken yell. “If we have to excavate a collapsed mine to dig out a single Sparkless chassis, then we frelling well do it! Do you understand?”

“Completely,” Bulkhead nodded. “Maybe our groups aren’t so different, after all.”

Scavenger pivoted in place and slammed his claws together – the resultant shockwave knocked Buzzsaw and the Flyers back into the ship’s dimly-lit recesses. Free of the sonic attack at last, Bulkhead transformed and ploughed missile after missile into the shadows. Scavenger transformed as well and, balancing Strika on his flattened “neck” section, made for the exit at top speed.

Vicious seismic activity rumbled around the trio as they returned to the wastelands. The sheer force of the undulations threw the Grounders into the air and catapulted them several kilometres away – Bulkhead accelerated to keep up with them. Strika’s chassis clanged to the ground; Scavenger landed and gaped. “No freaking way…”

Behind them, the mesa shattered into thousands of muddy, dusty pieces. Great clumps of silt and rock caromed around them. Scavenger hastily erected a localised force field around himself and Strika – Bulkhead dashed under the crackling green dome just before it closed. A rock speared the very spot on which he’d been standing.

“Thanks for waiting,” he snapped.

Scavenger didn’t reply. He just pointed to where the mesa… no, the ship inside it… was starting to rise. Purple soil cracked and fell away; from out a rapidly growing canon hurtled a silver vessel with a key-shaped nose and thin black protrusions for wings. The massive engine – which, strangely, gave off no discernable heat – was actually four shards of cobalt crystal. It was the same colour, Bulkhead realised, as the energies of the Creation Matrix… and of the ghosts he saw.

“Whatever it is,” Scavenger whispered, “your friends have it, now.”

“No friends of mine,” Bulkhead snapped redundantly. “Optimus needs to know about this, right now.” A very human phrase came to mind. “He’s gonna be sick.”

\-----

Side Burn could feel his new, metallic stomach churning. It wasn’t the nausea associated with transformation. It was dread made tangible, turned to liquid, in his gut. Bile rose in his synthesiser throat and made it hard to speak. The Mini-con had a horrible feeling he knew where this was all leading.

“Final phase?” he managed to choke out.

Predacon sighed happily. “I can tell you already see the shape of the master stroke. Yes. Never have I been able share any of this with another mech, Side Burn, and I am glad the first to hear this tale is you. On reflection, I should always have known it would be… ever have you been by my side, throughout it all.”

The emerald Key vanished again and Predacon flexed his body, popping bones and struts back into place. “Earth is the perfect place for the final stage of the master plan, for it is the place where the Path has led our race. This world contains the two ingredients necessary for our success: carbon-based life, and Autobot ingenuity.

“Desperate to secret themselves from the natives, the Autobots devised the Global Space Bridge. Not for nothing did we fight to secure some dominion over that network of passageways. Our foes carved veins and arteries of steel and technology into the very bedrock of this planet. They connected forest to city, desert to ocean, as surely as tendons link muscle and bone. Earth evolved through their actions, becoming _just a little_ technorganic.” He grinned horribly. “They provided us with a foot hold for our agenda.”

“How?” Side Burn asked. He’d spent 14 years waiting for this answer. Now it was here, he was 100 per cent certain he _didn’t_ want to know.

“A foot hold,” Predacon continued, now utterly lost in his tale, “but another body part was required. Armourhide’s severed limb carried, within it, ambient chronal radiation. The Autobots, as I’d long surmised, were hiding in plain sight – by _displacing_ themselves in time. My problem, then, was how to obtain the necessary technology. The arm helped, but was not enough. No.

“Fortune gave us the knowledge we needed to extract and replicate the radiation waveform. By sharing Sparks, but for a moment, Sky Shadow gained the ability to access Downshift’s frame. His hypnosis expertise allowed him to influence the mech’s movements – giving the True Path an unwitting, totally unaware agent within the Autobot stronghold. His supposedly treacherous actions have kept our foes busy with internal affairs as we ready their own mass-transit system for our uses, even as we leech the master engineer’s brain for the blueprints necessary to achieve our final goal!”

The zealot seemed to grow taller as he spread his arms once more. “The Omega Lock will propel Cybertron into Earth’s orbit,” he boomed. “But competing gravitational forces will not tear the worlds apart. No! For Earth will not _be there_. Chronal radiation, pumped through the Global Space Bridge, will shift this planet _out of phase_ with the rest of the universe!

“Then, when Cybertron has been moved into Earth’s usual place in the solar system, I will shut off the radiation… _thus merging Earth and Cybertron into one glorious Transmetal planet!_ Primus itself shall be reborn, in my image and under my control, as the _living god of the new Transmetal race!_ ”

He cackled madly. “Flesh alone is the weakest of all, metal no stronger. Balance is the way, the melding of two worlds – to be all flesh, or all metal, is to be _my_ prey.”


	4. Chapter 4

Side Burn soared through the corridors of the Terrorcon cathedral as fast as he dared. For one, he still wasn’t very good at flying; he tended to carom off walls too often. And, for another, he didn’t want to attract any undue attention… even though, right now, he felt like screaming.

The Autobots had to be told about Predacon’s master plan!

A spy for most of his existence, never before had the Mini-con’s processor contained information so vital, so dire. Millions of lives, on two worlds, were in the firing line. Life forms both mechanical and organic would be forced to undergo a heinous merging along the lines of his own recent experience. If he was to save them, he had to first stay alive … and that meant, despite the mad beating of his new technorganic heart, the metallic red dragon had to move quickly _and_ unobtrusively.

Wood and steel splintered as he turned a corner – his long, orange tail had gouged out a section of the wall. He paid it no mind. A lot more than walls would be broken if he failed in his task. He tried to do the math in his head. “Transmetalising” one Cybertronian consumed the substance of multiple organics. Extending that process across an entire metal planet… and its steely inhabitants… would likely consume every natural resource, every living creature, on the face of the Earth. The planet and its inhabitants would simply _cease to exist_.

And the Transformer race, well, it would be in shock. Imagine blinking your optics, for one second, and suddenly finding yourself technorganic. Side Burn had seen data tracks of the “wash outs” from Predacon’s experimentation. Many would-be members of the True Path had gone insane upon receiving their organic grafts, while others had died in the hours that followed. When Predacon referred to his followers as the elite, he wasn’t kidding – they were the volunteers for, and survivors of, mad science.

Hot breath caught in his iron throat. What about those unsuitable for the process? Mechs like Buzzsaw, or the late Skid-Z? Surely there were, among the Autobots, hundreds of mechs whose systems would reject the enforced “upgrade”. Would they die? Or did a far worse fate await them?

Side Burn growled, clenched his serrated jaw and bid his molybdenum wings to beat faster. No one would ever know the answers to those questions, he vowed. He’d made the choice, albeit reluctant, to become a Transmetal II. Now, he swore he would die before that state of existence was inflicted upon another unwilling participant.

He turned another corner, slicing through another tastefully-planted tree branch. Predacon’s final words, before he’d left the barracks, lingered in his ears. “Tell no one what you have learned,” the zealot had said, patting the Mini-con affectionately. “I already know you won’t. No. But I feel the need to say it… so close are we, now, to the fulfilment of our grand agenda that I would be foolish to risk anything.”

The Mini-con had then asked a question. “Why did we kidnap the humans, master? What purpose do they serve in your… grand design?”

Predacon had laughed uproariously. “My dear Side Burn,” he chuckled, “as you grow into your new life as a hunter, you will learn a most important lesson. A trap is only as good as the bait placed within it. To draw the Autobots out of their knot-hole, and learn of if my chronal displacement theory was correct, I needed a lure their disgustingly noble Sparks could not ignore.

“What better to dangle in front of an altruist than a friend in need? The humans were never of any use to me, Side Burn… humans have no place on the True Path... save and except for the value the Autobots placed in them. Had there been a more expedient way to bring the Autobots to the battlefield, I’d have selected that instead.”

It was a side of the “high priest” Side Burn had not seen in many a year. True it was that, long ago, the tyrannosaur had been willing to sacrifice lives for his holy quest. The battle inside the Plasma Energy Chamber – the near-death of Cruel Lock – had changed that for the better. At least, Side Burn and the others had believed it so.

But recent events… Skid-Z's betrayal, Sharkticon’s disappearance, Snarl’s conversion, the meeting with Rodimus and, especially, the confrontation with Flame Convoy… had taken their toll on the True Path’s leader. While his rhetoric was still passionate, it had taken on an edge of desperation. Suddenly, Side Burn feared for the fate of the Terrorcons as much as anyone else.

Gloomy, half-lit swamp beckoned. At last, the dragon had reached the cathedral’s exit. Side Burn was going to find an Autobot and convincing him of his former identity – even if he had to beat sense into an unbeliever. Then, he’d demand a secure com-channel to Cybertron, locate Crosswise – wherever he was these days – and, after 14 long years, finally make his report about the true nature of Predacon.

He allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Soon, it would be over.

The dragon’s new senses picked up the ambush, but only too late. A mighty cobalt paw swatted him from the sky and drove him down into the muck of the swamp. A second paw pinned him there. Howling with fury, Side Burn opened his jaws and loosed a scalding burst of thermite at his foe. The creature yelped and danced backward, giving the Mini-con time to right himself and transform back to robot mode. Lashing his whip-like tail in a defensive perimeter, he looked around.

Across the bog, the white wolf of Animatros was hunched, ready for the pounce. His Force Chip glowed emerald at the base of his neck; golden fangs were already bared and looked eager to plunge into Mini-con hide.

“Filthy, stinking traitor,” Snarl barked. “ _Huntnomore_ is upon you.”

\-----

“I’ve been your prisoner ever since you jammed your filthy, stinking arm in my mouth and knocked me cold,” Divebomb fumed. “How the frell am I supposed to know if Sky Shadow made a deal with Downshift, ya lummox?”

Rodimus and the rest of the jurors watched Armourhide pound his desk furiously. The diminutive commando – and self-styled prosecutor – had called the avian Terrorcon as his “star witness”. It wasn’t going too well. Armourhide’s case rested on one central premise: that Downshift had so thoroughly converted to the Terrorcon cause that every member of the enemy cult knew about it, and had sought to exploit it during their recent battles. Divebomb had shot holes in that theory.

“And if he had,” Divebomb continued, straining against the bonds that held him, “don’t you think I’d have taken advantage of it to get your friend over there to let me out – either through allegiance or blackmail? C’mon, chump, use your processor!”

Which fit perfectly, of course, with Rodimus’ own line of thinking. Somewhat embarrassed, he quietly powered down his forearm blasters. The cavalier had been ready, from the moment the Terrorcon had been wheeled in, to electrify the turkey if he so much as flinched. He noticed Jazz and Smokescreen relax their stances, too.

What did that say about all of them? Downshift was their friend, and yet they’d been prepared to entertain the idea he’d built a trap door into Divebomb’s restraints. They had all been ready to shoot the Terrorcon… _and_ the engineer, probably… if they’d made an escape attempt. Nothing had happened, of course, but still… their attitudes stank. Once again, Rodimus felt ill.

Armourhide was staring, resolutely, at the floor. Nightbeat had leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Rodimus doubted the canny detective would ask to cross-examine Divebomb. In the Autobot court, the onus of proof rested with the prosecution, not the defence. If Armourhide could not mount a convincing case, the jury’s duty was to acquit. And the Terrorcon had all but made Nightbeat’s case for him with that little outburst.

Rodimus glanced at the other jurors, who watched through view screens. He saw Red Alert nod sagely, and Grimlock’s optics narrow with anger. The young cavalier could imagine the Dinobot’s thought process; he’d consider this whole thing a waste of time. Silverstreak was, as usual, unreadable and Optimus…

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the Autobot commander said, his baritone voice echoing through the court room, “but I am no longer able to sit on this jury. I’ve just been informed of… events… here on Gigalonia that require my immediate attention.”

His screen swivelled toward Scattorshot. “You still have a quorum and, by Autobot law, the trial can continue without me,” he said. “Till all are One.”

The screen flared with static and then went dark. Murmurs of conversation rippled until Scattorshot silenced them with a bash of his gavel. In the sudden silence, Rodimus’ processor raced. What was going on?

\-----

Snarl crashed through a tree to Side Burn’s left. The impact sent waves cascading through the thick soup of the swamp and knocked leaves from a dozen other mangrove trees. The Mini-con used his tail to swing from branch to branch, doing all he could to take the fight deeper into the woods and _away_ from prying eyes.

Of all the luck in all the universe, his would had to have been the worst. Side Burn had run straight into the wolf’s trap, and the beast – one of the “first generation” of Animatros’ beastformers – was _ticked off_. Once, he had wondered if Snarl’s change in allegiance was for real or a clever trick; he had no doubts, now. The lupine meant to cut him to ribbons, all in the name of the True Path, for fleeing the base.

How the frell had Predacon figured it out so quickly? Side Burn’s processor was reeling. Did this mean the zealot had been wise to him all along? Was the master plan he’d just been told nothing more than an elaborate hoax – one final, cruel, twist of the knife before he extinguished the Spark of the traitor in his midst?

Transforming back to dragon mode, Side Burn tried to weave through the thickets. It met with as much success as all his attempts at flight; barely a hundred metres on, he caught his wing in a bramble and plunged onto the spongy ground. As before, Snarl was on him in an instant. Unlike before, the wolf had re-taken his robot mode and aimed his long, thin missile-launcher right at Side Burn’s elongated, lizard-like head.

“Admittedly, this was a good chase,” he sneered, “but only when compared to other examples of hunting down _rodents_. Though your efforts were poor, Side Burn, satisfy yourself with the knowledge that you inflicted one blow. For that reason alone, I shall remember you when I sing my conquests to the night sky, long after your hideous, Transmetal bones have been consigned to the depths of the swamp.”

Side Burn opened his mouth for another fireball. Snarl was ready, however – he used his other foot to kick a glob of swamp water down the Mini-con’s throat, extinguishing the hellish blast before it could fully form.

“Better it happen here, away from the snouts and senses of the Terrorcons,” Snarl mused. “Better, for it will require less explanation. After all: when an Autobot does his duty properly, and executes one who has _betrayed_ his brother Red Masks, it is neither a moment of pride nor one to be shared with our enemies.”

The dragon coughed and spluttered. “I’m no traitor, you idiot,” he fumed. “You’re the traitor! And now, you’ve sided yourself with a lunatic who intends to re-sculpt two worlds to suit his theological designs!”

His whole body shook with the force of Snarl’s backhand. “Speak not to me of betrayal, Transmetal II,” he roared. “I have maintained _my_ Autobot purity while further infiltrating this disgusting cult – unlike those who are about to die, all because they elected to become _abominations_ and bring the future about all too soon!”

“Everything I did was for the sake of my… hang on a minute,” Side Burn exclaimed. “You’re _infiltrating_ the Terrorcons?”

The wolf bristled. “My… change in allegiance… was but a ruse,” he sniffed. Side Burn noticed his grip on the missile launcher had slackened. “My supposed feelings for Chromia were a feint, as was my sudden dedication to my old rival, Predacon. I am here for but one purpose – to repay my debt of honour to the boy Koji, and rescue his parents… as once I swore I would.”

For a moment, the imposing warrior actually looked abashed. “At that time, my promise arose from self-interest,” he mumbled. “Another vow, subsequent to that, has brought the past into… sharp relief. If I am to keep my word to myself – to fight that others might enjoy the liberty forever denied me – then I must retrace the steps of my sins and cover them over with the fresh soil of redemption!”

Side Burn frowned. “Then you’d best get your foot the hell off me, you stupid mutt,” he spat, “because we’re on the same damn side!”

Snarl chewed his lip with his fangs, for a moment, then stepped back. He kept his weapon trained on Side Burn as, between lung-fulls of coughed-up water, the Mini-con explained his actions. By the time he’d re-told his evolution, and the reasons behind it, the wolf had lowered the missile launcher. As Side Burn detailed Predacon’s master plan, Snarl grew agitated.

“No,” he growled, “this cannot be.”

“It is,” Side Burn said ruefully, setting himself down on a tree root.

“My meaning escapes you,” the wolf continued, his despair evident. “When I say this cannot be, those words are all and everything! The technology of which you speak… the time-shift device used by the Autobots… it does not work in the way Predacon believes. He does not understand the forces he seeks to control!”

“What?”

Snarl’s expression darkened. “For 10 years, I was a prisoner within the Autobot base,” he muttered. “Leashed, if you will, for I lacked the hardware to interface with the time-shift technology. Many times did I seek to escape; many times did I fail. The reason was simple: items that are time-shifted are moved beyond the reach of the natural order. Should one’s hardware fail while crossing between extremes, one becomes trapped… and the natural order is unforgiving.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Side Burn shrugged.

“In the case of the Autobot base,” Snarl corrected bitingly, “one would become _atomised_ within a mountain. On the scale which Predacon intends to attempt, the planet Earth would materialise within Cybertron…”

“Complete with its orbit, atmosphere and gravitational forces,” Side Burn gasped. “It would tear Cybertron apart from the inside, while Earth itself was crushed!”

Snarl nodded. “This _cannot_ be,” he intoned. “This… plan, this agenda… must not come to pass. In seeking to create new life, Predacon will cause only genocide.” Steel hackles rose, all across his armour. “Unless we stop him.” He gripped his weapon with both his clawed hands. “Permanently.”

“I’m with you,” Side Burn cheered. The Mini-con drew himself up to his full height and flexed his wings. “Time to find out what this fancy chassis can _really_ do.”

“First,” the wolf cautioned, “we find the humans. Then…”

“Then we remind Predacon,” Side Burn said, flashing his fangs, “that dinosaurs are already _extinct_.”

\-----

Optimus Prime surveyed the wastelands and raised his arms. A pre-programmed magnetic protocol activated as, behind him, his trailer fragmented. Red and gold sections leaped into the air and reformed around him as body armour. The Autobot commander grew taller in stature; the energy of the Creation Matrix flowed into his every system. _This_ was the form Primus had intended for its champion – a body designed to preserve life, not end it… a body tooled to resolve conflict through non-violent means.

Being non-violent, however, did not stop Optimus being aggressive.

The ruby juggernaut charged into the fray, his ivory fingers stretched out in front of him. Super-cold jets of liquid nitrogen burst forth from the digits, freezing more than a dozen blue Flyers. His scanners registered movement from behind; his shoulder-mounted cannon flipped around and dropped a red spider tank with a stun blast. Though the ground beneath his feet sizzled and crackled with electricity, it had no effect on his chassis – it had been forged to resist the harshest of environments.

Grinning wryly beneath his mask-like face plate, Optimus swung his ladder assembly onto his shoulder. Twin nozzles locked into place and a torrent of water gushed forth. He could have used more liquid nitrogen but saw no need; the sudden flood had far greater effect on the yellow Flyers. The tiny creatures howled in agony as their own power turned on them, the electrical feedback shorting out their neural nets and rendering them unconscious.

Optimus holstered his ladder and pushed forward again, despatching wave after wave of Flyers with merciful – but devastating – blows from his oversized hands. Above, Omega Supreme peppered the writhing mass of metal with more stun bolts; his numerous batteries white hot from firing. Team Bullet Train was somewhere in the melee, as were Wrecker Hook and the rest of Strika’s lackeys. The Autobot commander, meanwhile, fought his way to the very centre of the onslaught. So massive was the Flyer response that Scavenger, a being who towered above any mech Optimus had met in his long existence, was almost obscured in the frenetic assault.

“What in the name of Alpha Trion is going on?” Prime boomed.

A group of Flyers, to his left, yelped as they hurtled into the air. Bulkhead, his leg-mounted jump-jets glowing orange, was in amongst them. “Someone uncorked a nest of Flyers,” he yelled. “Someone named Reptilion.”

Kicking and punching, Optimus drew closer to his soldier. “Reptilion? There’s a Terrorcon presence here, on Gigalonia?”

“Not anymore,” Bulkhead said tightly. “Reptilion and Buzzsaw just took off in a flying mesa. Well, it only _looked_ like a flying mesa. There was some kind of space craft inside it… Scavenger thought it might’ve belonged to Metroplex.”

“Gah!” Optimus cried out as someone slipped a dagger into his processing cluster. The wound was not real, but it had just as much effect… the titan dropped to his knees and was, instantly, covered in scrabbling Flyers.

He could not feel their assault... nor anything else. A panel on the right-hand side of his chest had opened, revealing the Creation Matrix. The sacred life force of the Transformer race, the gateway to the Well of All Sparks, and the receptacle of the wisdom of leaders… Autobot and otherwise… spanning countless generations. The holy relic spoke to Optimus in a voice he had heard before and had come to know well – the voice of the late Grounder “fore-mech”, Metroplex.

In a second, he understood – so fast was the download, from the Matrix to his brain, that Optimus was dazzled. A second more and he had recovered; thirty more seconds and he was clear of his annoying attackers. Annoying and _delaying_. For Optimus knew, now, the extent of the danger they faced – both on Gigalonia and Cybertron – and it was far more severe than anything the Flyers could do to them.

Disengaging the magnetic locks, Optimus re-took his smaller robot mode. He willed his trailer to reassemble, then took its long, nigh-on indestructible hose in hands. Planting his feet and turning in a circle, the Autobot leader used the section like the hammer of Thor, sending Flyers hurtling for miles. The smaller mechs’ shock at the tactic caused them to hesitate, giving Scavenger and Bulkhead the time they needed to free themselves. For the first time, Optimus noticed the deathly-still chassis of Strika. She had been draped over Scavenger’s treads.

The duo flanked Optimus as he set the trailer down and ordered it to transform into its base configuration. Radar dishes sprang from out the sides of the ladder, even as distortion missiles launched from its top to aid in the battle.

He crouched over the microphone. “This is Optimus Prime, security code C-001,” he barked. “I need access to Cybertronian governor Grimlock. Now!”

\-----

“Gather around, my Decepticons,” Starscream bellowed. “We have another guest!”

Ultra Magnus heard the nasal cry and winced. An involuntary shudder ran through his systems. _Oh sure, it all sounded easy when he was gone,_ he thought to himself. _But now Starscream’s back. You thought you were so tough, so capable, as to outwit the mech who slaughtered a thousand worlds. The mech who’s outwitted both you and Predacon at every turn. Talk about hubris, you fool!_

Shaking his head violently, the Earthforce commander banished such doubts. He listened, instead, to the calming – and, yes, annoying – sound of his own voice, recorded on his “black box”. Rational thought took over once more.

Not only was Starscream back but, so it would seem, were the Dirge units. That would account for the sudden shattering of his will. The only real fool around here was Starscream. The self-styled “emperor” believed the clones caused their enemies deep fear. In truth, the noise of their engines sapped a mech’s willpower, leaving them at the mercy of their insecurities.

The difference was subtle but important… because it was a difference Magnus could exploit. Starscream may have been largely unaffected – his ego was, after all, more unassailable than the walls of Iacon – but his troops were another story.

The Decepticons – all of them awake, for once – assembled on a large, hovering parade ground. Starscream and his honour guard of clones took up one side; the Decepticons the other. Magnus positioned himself behind them all.

“All things come to those who wait,” Starscream said, pushing a bound and manacled mech to the floor.

Magnus raised an eyebrow ridge – they’d managed to capture Thundercracker! But when had he arrived on Earth? And did this mean Nightbeat and the rest of the SWAT Team were here? He breathed a small sigh of relief. Perhaps the RIDs weren’t as slagged as he’d first feared, if there were already reinforcements.

Thundercracker hissed defiantly at the gathered Decepticons. Most of them took a step back, well aware of their former comrade’s legendary fury. Even Shockblast appeared a little unsettled. Obsidian and Tankor, oddly, showed no reaction. The tan-and-green giant even seemed to smile a little.

The dark warrior paid them no mind and kept growling… pausing only long enough to wink at Magnus. He returned the subtle acknowledgement. It seemed Thundercracker had also figured out the Dirge units, and was rallying against them.

“You game for a gamble?” Magnus whispered into his internal communicator.

There was a pause. “When I roll the dice, mechs die,” Thundercracker finally growled back. “You’ve got some bearings, Magnus. You’re standing near the greatest communicator in Cybertronian history and you’re using the inter-Autobot radio?”

“Improvisation is risk,” Magnus replied, tuning out Starscream’s retelling of his victory. “And, for reasons I’ll explain later, I’m certain Soundwave’s not firing on all cylinders at the moment. But enough on that. I’ve got some freedom here but they’ll likely lock you away. Before they do: would you like to play Iago with me?”

He held his breath, waiting. Even though Soundwave was, hopefully, dulled by his latest lobotomy, Magnus was loathe to speak his plans aloud. Again he was gambling – this time that Thundercracker had absorbed _some_ Earth culture during the first Terran wars, and that none of the Decepticons knew their Shakespeare.

“I am not what I am,” the ex-Decepticon quoted, and closed the channel.

Magnus nodded, then moved closer to Soundwave. “With all this tech,” he whispered conspiratorially, “that I wouldn’t be surprised if Starscream has a robo-smasher, somewhere. Just like Megatron had.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Soundwave rumbled back. “The device was destroyed, generations ago, by your commando squad.” He laughed. “A debt that was quickly repaid in full.”

“Of course,” Magnus said, feigning embarrassment. “Still, it’s been a long time since anyone – on either side of the Cybertronian wars – has had access to this sort of tech. Your base is amazing, by the way.”

“The New Decepticon Empire _is_ glorious,” Soundwave droned.

“Glorious thanks to a lot of archaic and outlawed technology, soldier,” Magnus continued. “No one’s been able to clone Transformers, for instance, since the days of the 13. If that’s made a comeback, robo-smashers can’t be too far behind.” He tapped his chin. “Imagine what Starscream could do with a device that installs a shell program around one’s Spark. He could corrupt a _lot_ of Autobots to his cause. Maybe even me.”

He let that sink in for a moment. “Not to mention the lapsed Decepticons he could bring back to the fold,” he said, optics narrowing. “Predacon and all of his weirdo mechs… even Grimlock and, well, Thundercracker. You think that’s why he let his old teacher live, Soundwave? He’d make a heck of a second-in-command… provided I didn’t take the job.”

The imposing giant bristled. A perceptible shudder ran the length of his chassis. Ultra Magnus said no more and stepped, quietly, to the side. He wondered if Demolishor and Snow Cat had ever considered their diminished value to the Decepticon cause, now Starscream had soldiers who _never_ made mistakes.

\-----

Snarl and Side Burn stalked the corridors of the Terrorcon cathedral. The wolf, crouched low to the ground, scented every turn before he took it. He was determined to locate Kicker and Misha without raising the alarm. The dragon, meanwhile, was spoiling for a fight. He sat atop Snarl’s back, coiling and uncoiling his wicked tail.

It was unusual for the spy to want a direct confrontation, but that seemed another of the many changes caused by his metamorphosis. He wondered, for a moment, how much of his personality had been altered. It wasn’t the most comfortable of thoughts. Side Burn’s new power came from the remains of an insane, deluded, maniacal Transformer. The Mini-con hoped that, unlike genetics, traits did not pass down through microchips and machinery.

“There is something strange in the air,” Snarl murmured. “A tang of metal mixed with flesh, but more acute… the stench is stronger than normal.” He turned his head to each side, sniffing. “And there is more to it, something… eldritch.”

Side Burn stiffed. “Predacon,” he gasped. “The Transmetal chamber!”

Growling with frustration, Snarl loped back the way they had come. The wolf felt ill-equipped to face the zealot without first guaranteeing the safety of his hostages. But if Predacon himself was undergoing the Transmetal II process… if his powers were to be heightened as were Side Burn’s… then the greater threat must first be dealt with.

“Forgive me, Koji,” the wolf rasped. “Even in this, I have no freedom at all. The choice, as always, has been taken from me.”

The chamber was empty, save for Predacon. The zealot had sealed himself within the central “trunk” of the device, perhaps using a timer to initiate the process. For whatever reason, he’d chosen to “upgrade” away from the watchful eyes of his True Path followers. Side Burn could imagine the reason: jealousy. For all his talk of perfection, of attaining a higher level of existence, Predacon resented the Mini-con for becoming the first Transmetal II. Loathing his own cowardice and feeling slighted at coming second, it was better to reveal himself to the devout as an already “perfected” being, rather than sully his “ascension” with slack-jawed witnesses.

“By the Sparks of my ancestors,” Snarl breathed.

Above them hung the “pods” of the Transmetal device. Each one was full to bursting. Side Burn had never seen the chambers so laden with helpless, innocent lives. It was as if Predacon had emptied the cryogenic chambers in which the cult’s specimens were kept. Lizards, apes, lions, even an African elephant, roared and howled and wailed as they were dissected.

“Is it me,” Side Burn asked, pointing to the central trunk, “or is he getting bigger?”

Predacon, at the heart of the maelstrom, was crowing with laughter. Side Burn remembered the euphoria of metamorphosis, and the boost it gave to one’s confidence and ego. As delusional a being as Predacon would assume the energy he felt was no longer a touch of the divine, but the anointing of a god.

“And that is why,” Snarl pointed as he transformed.

Side Burn looked and saw the Spark chamber… the Transmetal II driver… _melting_. Never intended for such a purpose, the ancient artefact was liquefying from the strain of channelling so much energy. Molten metal ran down the insides of the trunk, mixing with the pulped flesh and organs of the still-screaming victims, and increased Predacon’s mass exponentially. Not only was the high priest having technorganic life woven into his form, he was having the very substance of Primus itself injected into every inch of his chassis.

Unable to stop the grim spectacle, the Autobots could only watch in mute horror. Predacon’s body – decorated in earthy tones of brown, green and orange – seemed to catch alight. The armoured panels atop his shoulders sharpened, and his chest plate thickened and became more angular. The machine guns that, in beast mode, formed his dinosaur arms took up some of the chamber’s metal and elongated; the number of fingers doubled and splayed far, trailing molybdenum wings between them.

Silver legs turned to ruby; taloned feet re-shaped themselves into heads with rows of jagged teeth. New arms appeared around Predacon’s midsection and tucked in near his abdominal section; a new foot grew along each of his wrists and bent backward, revealing triple-barrelled canons. The zealot’s face turned a deep shade of purple as – at the tops of his new wings, forearms and knees – gemstones of the same coloured swirled into corporeal form. Gold and purple highlights crept across Predacon’s new, enhanced chest plate as his personal crest – the head of an insect – flashed into brilliant life atop an amber gem in its centre.

The chamber hissed open and birthed the new being into the world; as he stepped onto the laboratory floor, the device fell apart behind him. The bones of the victims were buried in the catastrophic failure of the machine – it broke into sparking, wire-trailing pieces and collapsed into the “bone bins” around it. Whatever Predacon had done… whatever he had become… had claimed not only the Spark chamber, but the Transmetal process itself.

Malevolent crimson eyes scanned Snarl and Side Burn. The creature that had once been Predacon took a deep breath and then smiled, flashing yellow teeth. The Mini-con half expected a maniacal laugh, a guffaw of ultimate power, but was disappointed. The being who now ruled the True Path… a priest that believed himself, now, a deity… flexed hundreds of tungsten steel muscles. Blood red highlights on his helm, and down its neck, pulsed in time with the light from the symbol on his forehead – like the one on his chest, the mark of the Terrorcons.

“I feel a change in name is required,” the creature said simply, matter-of-factly, as if all that had transpired was the most normal thing in the world. “Yes. Snarl… Side Burn… you may address me as [_Predaking_](http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a328/dtailphotos/RID-Predaking01.jpg) from now on.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Spar](http://i38.photobucket.com/albums/e139/UrsaMagnus/MTMTAllspark/Sparkle-Autobot1.jpg)[kle](http://i38.photobucket.com/albums/e139/UrsaMagnus/MTMTAllspark/Sparkle-Autobot2.jpg) and Bolis were [created by my daughter](http://sf-dtail-49.livejournal.com/286924.html), LJ.

The corrosive stream missed her by an inch. Even as she clattered to the ground, Sparkle was thinking about her duty. Before she turned her attention toward the culprit, she doused the noxious, burning substance with a blast from her arm cannon.

“Bolis, you’re wearing down my last neural linkage,” she growled.

“Yeah, but you’d miss me if I was gone,” her opponent cackled.

Sparkle watched as the troublemaker transformed; his alt mode resembled one of the red-and-white trucks used, on Earth, to delivery sugary drinks to human stores. The young femme also transformed – into a pink replica of one of Earth’s fire engines. 

The colour may not have been strictly accurate but it was good to be different, these days. Earth-based alt modes were all the rage on Cybertron, especially here in the oh-so-fashionable Tagon Heights. Sparkle had heard of one rich drip – a turbo-fox hunter, of all mechs – who’d dug up the specs of a Formula One racing car to better serve his ego.

Her alt mode was, primarily, a tribute to her mentor. She’d been barely out of her stasis pod when Inferno had taken her under his wing. Looking to adjust to a life without warfare, he’d taught her all he knew as a way of “passing on vital skills to a new generation”. Alone among the de-commissioned Autobots, Inferno was sure war would come again, one day, and wanted the younger mechs and femmes ready for it.

Sparkle had done nothing but benefit from the attentions of her father-figure. Floundering when he’d taken a job in Checkpoint’s prison, his inspiration led to her creating the Cybertron Civilian Defence Patrol – a group of Transformers dedicated to keeping the peace in the new suburban areas. She’d even found the courage, in Inferno’s example, to approach Grimlock _directly_ for permission to create the autonomous, though Autobot-aligned, unit. The Dinobot had grunted a rough affirmative and off she’d gone, gathering up other like-minded youngsters.

“Who’re ya tailing, doll?” a gruff voice asked over her communicator.

Best of all, her Corps had allowed her to give something back to Inferno. Crippled by Bludgeon’s attack, the cantankerous old guzzler now served as the central dispatcher of the CCDP or, as he affectionately put it, “the processor of this bad-sectored scheme”.

“Bolis is up to his old tricks,” she responded. “Said he was going to use that gloop of his to melt a few dwellings. I think he’s _trying_ to get thrown into prison.”

“Likely,” Inferno agreed. Sparkle could picture him rocking back in his spinal support chair. “He came online ‘bout when you did. Time was, he’d have been a Decepticon. Proto’s looking for someplace to belong in a world with no room for his kind.”

Sparkle shuddered involuntarily. She could have turned out the same … listless, seeking direction, maybe even causing trouble… without Inferno’s calming influence. “That’s no excuse for slagging the Heights,” she growled, clamping down on her natural empathy. “If he’s so desperate to serve time, he can start tonight.”

She crossed the Kranix Bridge and went left, following a very obvious trail of sucrose sludge… then slammed on her brakes. Bolis was right in front of her, standing in the middle of the road with his back turned. The dumpy hellion was staring up into the night sky, his face plate etched with a dim lack of understanding.

In one smooth motion, Sparkle transformed, pulled a pair of Energon cuffs from subspace and clamped them around Bolis’ wrists. The would-be Decepticon didn’t move. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, his optics still turned heavenward. “Not anymore.”

Sparkle followed his gaze, and felt her body go slack. The air above had been _filled_ by an enormous starship. Sparkle tried to take in its immense details, but her processor balked. All she could make out, for sure, was that it was huge, hulking and seemed to be vaguely shaped like a key.

“If that’s unfriendly,” she gasped, “we’re in a _lot_ of trouble.”

\-----

You could take command of a group of homicidal maniacs. You could lead them out of the darkness of defeat and offer them a glorious new existence as galactic conquerors. You could give them wealth, power, more Energon than they could ever hope to consume, and more ammunition that they could ever fire.

But, Ultra Magnus had discovered, you could never make them _happy_.

Snow Cat and Demolishor _did_ feel undervalued; like they’d been downgraded to cannon fodder. Rumble missed Frenzy, and harboured much resentment over the manner of his twin’s death. Tidal Wave still wanted Starscream’s head on a stick, irrespective of recent successes. Lugnutz and Runamuck hated being confined to base; they wanted to “roam” on Earth and “be free spirits”. And Shortround didn’t really want to be a Decepticon at all – the avowed neutralist had been promised a shot at Sky Shadow. That moment of revenge had, mysteriously, been delayed for more than a decade.

Magnus soared through the Decepticon base, reflecting. It had been _easy_ to get them all talking. The dumber ‘cons felt the “Dirge sting” more acutely; the clones had heightened their insecurities and left them desperate for reassurance. Soundwave had vanished, muttering about checking “the equipment lists”. Shockblast had rebuffed Magnus’ well-meaning conversations… and talked instead to an old comrade. Thundercracker’s scheduled torture session came to an abrupt end when he asked, idly, why Starscream had yet to replace the cyclops’ missing arm.

The Autobot shook his head at the memory. Thundercracker had _cut off_ that limb, during the Battle of Iacon. Yet, such was the power of the Dirge units, Shockblast was more willing to berate Starscream than take gory retribution upon his mutilator.

Magnus was without delusion; had the Decepticons not spent so long around the willpower-sapping blue clones, they’d not have been vulnerable to his plan. Some of them were not susceptible at all. Tankor and Obsidian were made of stone; unflinching in their silence despite their obvious hatred for their commander. Still, it didn’t matter. Enough of the rank-and-file had poured out their Sparks for Magnus to be confident. The Decepticons would fall apart under fire and be easy pickings for the RIDs. Primus willing, Magnus could stop this second Terran war from turning into a three-way shoot-out between Autobots, Decepticons and Terrorcons.

Provided, of course, he could improvise solutions for his new problems.

Having his only ally in the cell block wasn’t the issue. No, the problem came from the occupants of the cell _next to_ Thundercracker’s. His sump had nearly fallen out his chassis when he’d learned Koji and Sally were being held in the undersea fortress. A chat with Lugnutz had revealed the _how_ , but not the _why_. What did Starscream hope to gain by keeping a pre-teen boy and his relative hostage? And what was the nature of his alliance with the human female Alexis – a woman Magnus had seen, since, wandering freely around the Decepticon base?

The Dirge song rang in his audio sensors; he fought off its influence and, instead, heeded to the reassurance of his own, recorded voice. Doubt was a luxury Magnus could ill afford, right now. He _had_ to keep telling himself that. His plans had become all the more important now. Not only did he have to cripple the Decepticons and stop a three-way war… he had to rescue three friends while doing it.

\-----

“This is a problem,” Side Burn hissed.

“I’m so _glad_ you are here,” Snarl whispered nastily. “I would hate to miss out on facts that would be obvious to a blind, deaf and mentally challenged ithiac!”

The Mini-con couldn’t see down the corridor in front of them. His view was obscured by the enormous beast that swept, grandly, through every part of the Terrorcon cathedral. Predacon… _Predaking_ … had yet to explain his metamorphosis to his loyal followers. He seemed content to walk through rooms, catch their attention and continue on. A line had formed, behind Snarl and Side Burn, of stunned True Path doubters and devotees alike.

“No, I mean the Pied Piper act,” Side Burn continued, switching to inter-Autobot radio. “It’s going to be pretty hard to assassinate Predaking in front of witnesses.”

Snarl arched an optic ridge. “One would think assassinating a god made flesh to be difficult, regardless of any rubber-neckers,” he transmitted dismissively. “Truly, little dragon, you are an incredibly dim Mini-con. I’m certain you have some talents of use, given you’ve hidden within the den of beasts for so long – I bid you focus on those, instead of regurgitating inane chatter, that we may yet win this day!”

Predaking completed his victory lap by leading the Terrorcons back into the Transmetal chamber. Finally, the attention of the herd focused on something other than their souped-up leader. Battle Ravage keened mournfully at the sight of the ruined device. Others who had already undergone the process – and were eager to upgrade – were similarly disturbed. Chromia, Side Burn noticed, grinned happily.

“My brethren,” the zealot boomed, spreading his arms as was his custom. Glittering molybdenum wings flared open to accentuate the gesture. “I stand revealed to you now as Predaking. I big you use that name, instead, for it is a harbinger to what we will all be, when the sun has set this day… _kings_ of a technorganic paradise!”

Though cloaked in a new body, the priest’s voice had its usual effect. Those gathered began to grunt, their animal instincts responding to his blood-laced words. Part religious fervour, part feeding frenzy, it was as if a school of Pirahnacons had found Primus. No longer willing to continue his pretence, Side Burn did not react. Snarl, too, stood tall. When Chromia attempted to sidle up to him, he pushed the duplicitous femme away.

“Let not the destruction of the Transmetal chamber – the ashes from I arose, phoenix-like – plague you, my disciples. It is but ordinary metal; thus can it be replaced. Even without the driver, the heart of the dragon, we will find a way to bring you _all_ to my level! Yes. I will not rest, I vow, until every single one of you is as perfect as I!”

Snarl frowned. “His plan is, as I have said, unworkable,” he transmitted to Side Burn. “Yet he believes it will come to pass. Through his scheme, would not all present be made Transmetal II by forced fusion with the humans and Earth’s life forms?”

“I suppose,” Side Burn replied.

“Then why does he not tell them that?” Snarl wondered. “Why keep secrets now, at the supposed moment of his victory?”

Predaking pushed his way to the back of the group and drew level with Wheeljack and Crumplezone. “I shall anoint the two of you,” he breathed, “with a task most vital to our final victory. Go, now, to Sky Shadow’s laboratory. He will supply you with a device. Go with him, to the human settlement at the end of the Global Space Bridge, and install the machine atop their ‘science centre’. Where it began is where, I feel, it should _end_.

Wheeljack looked unconvinced. “What does it do?”

“The device emits radiation,” Predaking hissed, unhappy at being questioned. “The energy will flood this world and cancel out the means by which the Autobots hide themselves from us. Once they have been revealed, we may strike – liberating Divebomb at the same time – and wipe them from the face of the planet! The rats in our nest thus exterminated, we can take control of this planet its natural resources… be they inert or be they living… forever!

“Think of it, Wheeljack; a world already technorganic, through the influence of the Transformers, under the rule of those who best understand the purity granted by melding machines with flesh! From this new home world, all of creation will be ours to conquer!”

The serial killer’s lip curled. “Sounds like a waste of my time,” he sneered.

Predaking’s eyes flashed. In a flash of amber light he transformed – morphing, rather than shifting, into a new shape. His legs appeared to vanish into his torso and then reappear where his shoulders had been; his head retreated into his chest as his arms elongated and became legs. From out his waist spouted two smaller, dinosaur-like arms while a long tail erupted from the base of his spine, sending Terrorcons scattering in all directions. The beast’s wings flipped around and vomited glowing Energon blades that stabbed at the air and hummed with devastating power. Worst of all, what had been Predaking’s feet contorted, grew teeth and roared – they had become twin dragon heads!

Wheeljack backpedalled from the awesome sight, his jaw working soundlessly. The two heads leered at him, snaking down to his optic level and grinning with violent promise. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, unbeliever,” they said, their voices working in stereo. Although there were two heads, they were the product of a single intelligence. “You should get down on your knees and give thanks I don’t _burn you alive_ , right now, for your months of doubt and cynicism. Yes.”

The former Autobot stammered. Predaking snorted. “That wasn’t a suggestion,” the dual voices growled. “I said get _on your knees_.”

Wheeljack hesitated, but his fear was greater than his insanity. The serial killer fell to the floor and bowed. Predaking transformed back to his robot mode, then patted his soldier on the head. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it? No.” He smiled. “Go do my bidding.”

Without rising, the humbled killer transformed to sports car mode and sped out of the chamber. Crumplezone, dumb but loyal animal he was, changed modes and followed without question. The Mini-con Wind Shear, too, followed, completing the trio.

“The rest of you: retire to your quarters and make ready,” Predaking said, gazing benevolently upon his ‘people’. “Load every weapon, file every tooth and claw down to points most acute and damaging. Once the radiation suffuses this globe, we go on the hunt… and woe betide the weak for they shall fall, like infants, before us!”

Howls, roars and cries of support went up from all gathered… all save Snarl and Side Burn, who could only share a dark, worried look.

“He’s lost it,” the dragon moaned.

“Far from it,” Snarl disagreed. “If anything, he is more dangerous. I understand his intent. Predaking knows that revealing his plans, now, would distract these animals from their focus. By promising them blood… by appealing to their base instincts… he keeps them on target, even after the loss of the Transmetal process.” He grunted. “This, in itself, is a master stroke. He makes his hunting dogs slaver for flesh, and in doing so keeps them out in the open for the moment of merging.”

“Except they’re all going to die,” Side Burn sighed. “He’ll kill them all through pride.”

\-----

“Of course can see it _now_ , want to know why no see it _before_ now!”

Grimlock buried his fist in another monitor. It did nothing to improve the capabilities of their obviously woeful early-warning system, but it made him feel a little better anyway. 

“You can bark as much as you want,” Red Alert snapped, struggling to maintain his composure, “but the simple fact is I have no explanation. According to every scanner … and that’s every scanner across the face of Cybertron… there is _nothing there_.”

Grimlock seethed. “Get Planet Keys, make Primus transform,” he growled dangerously. “Then me climb up his head and poke him in over-sized optics, so dumb creator have _excuse_ for being useless blind mech!”

A door opened. “Got it,” Swerve gasped, spilling into the room. “A message from Prime. He says a ship lifted off from Gigalonia, and it’s most likely headed for Cybertron.”

“Wonderful!” Grimlock boomed, throwing up his hands. “Great and powerful leader decide to jot us a quick note about _slag we already see_! Welcome to broadcast, dark side of planet! Sheesh!”

Swerve arched an optic ridge. “You’re missing the point – Prime says it’s the ship used, by Metroplex, in the exodus. It’s the vessel that took the Transformer race to Gigalonia, and it’s got a second…”

A tremor of unimaginable violence rumbled through the command centre. Every window shattered; monitors that had escaped the wrath of Grimlock fragmented instantly. The Dinobot was thrown off his feet; Swerve was catapulted back into the corridor, where he collided with Silverstreak. Red Alert landed face-first in his console.

“… ability,” Swerve called, weakly, from beneath Silverstreak.

Recovering quickly, Grimlock ran to one of the windows and leaped out of it. He transformed in mid-air, landing in dinosaur mode and sprinting toward the horizon. Cybertron had gained a new land mass – one that rose out of it and into the sky. The ship hadn’t so much docked with the planet as it had _connected with it_ , interfacing with an area in equatorial Kalis. But that wasn’t the half of it.

Sirens blared as Red Alert, in his vehicle mode, pulled alongside. “Doc,” Grimlock said to the orange-and-black ambulance, “it me, or are stars wrong?”

The medic transformed and looked. “By the primordial program,” he whispered.

For centuries, Cybertronians had navigated by way of the stars. With little to speak of by way of magnetic poles, the Transformers used the stars and the capital cities – Iacon and Kaon – as the points on their compasses. As such, every Transformer had a hard-wired knowledge of the pattern of lights in the sky. Right now, the orientation over Iacon was off. Not by much, but still off… unlike it had ever appeared before.

“The whole city has drifted,” Red Alert breathed.

“Not whole city,” Grimlock groused. “Whole _continent_. Ship hit planet; planet start to transform. But not finish, or else tremors be much bigger. So what happen?”

Another tremor thundered beneath them, accompanied by an intense wash of heat. Once again, Grimlock toppled… but, this time, found he couldn’t get back to his feet. He felt as though some invisible weight was pinning him, from above – an inexorable force he could not resist. The blistering heat only made it worse, like being roasted alive.

Gritting his serrated teeth, he glanced to the side; Red Alert was similarly stuck, as were a handful of mechs and femmes who’d emerged from their offices and buildings. Several of them were whimpering, while others – less hardy in their construction – spontaneously combusted and burned where they fell. Little fires popped up, everywhere, as metallic objects both living and inanimate caught alight or were crushed… or both.

“Gravitational pressures… unprecedented,” Red Alert winced.

“Speak… like normal mech, maybe?” Grimlock roared, frustrated.

“Heat’s like a furnace, or… some kind of… engine.”

The Dinobot thought back to the battle between Primus and Unicron, ten years earlier. “Primus have big… guns on shoulders,” he growled.

Red Alert’s optics, beneath his tinted visor, grew wide. “If Optimus is right… if that ship was used in the exodus,” he gasped, “then it’s technically… a piece of Cybertron itself. Sensors… wouldn’t have registered it… they scan for everything that’s… not Cybertron.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to stand up, and grunted in pain. “The whole planet’s _moving_ ,” he moaned softly. “That ship… took command of Primus… initiated a transformation… and is using its weapons to fly us all through space!”

\-----

“Aw, fer bootin’ up cold,” Armourhide cried. “Don’t anyone got respect fer da law?”

A Terran nursery rhyme drifted through Rodimus’ processor: _hi-ho the dairy-o, the cheese stands alone._ Their communications link with Cybertron had, just moments ago, been violently cut off. First, Optimus Prime had dashed away for reasons unknown and, now, Grimlock and the rest of the inner circle had disappeared. How were they supposed to conduct a trial without a proper jury?

“Dis is an outrage,” Armourhide continued. “Dese are serious charges, brought on with evidence o’ fact and plenty o’ witnesses. Fer the jury ta just ignore dese proceedings in favour o’ whatever dey’re runnin’ off to now is…”

Nightbeat rose. “Will you, for once, shut the frell up?” he yelled. “I know you’re stuck on a vengeance kick, Armourhide, but it’s getting really old really fast. We’re still Autobots, and there’s still an entire universe out there to contend with – you don’t think there’s anything more important than this jumped-up trial, do you?”

He leaned toward his prosecutorial opponent. “You’re a trench rat, a loser who no unit would have,” he sneered. “You’re on Earth under sufferance; Magnus took you when everyone else was ready to blast you into space. So you have a bad day, and a couple of bad experiences, and you want to take it out on a real Autobot? Downshift’s done more for our cause than you ever could, stinky – on Cybertron, on Speedia and here on Earth! He makes decisions, both good and bad ones, but at least he _actually does something_! What have you contributed, lately, other than suspicion and bile?”

The commando glowered. “Don’t you give me attitude, ya ‘con-hunting whack job,” he spat. “You ain’t been here more’n a breem, an’ ya think yer the right mech t’ go inta bat fer a slaggin’ traitor! Puh-leaze! You ain’t one a _us_ , Mr Detective Man. You ain’t been here, seen what he’s done ta all o’ us with his colludin’ and connivin’. You ain’t lost an arm in the Global Space Bridge, or nearly been _melted inta scrap_ because he went an’ grabbed a banned weapon t’ use against a freaking god!”

He stormed over and poked the larger Autobot in the chest plate. “An’ it ain’t yer commanding officer and pet dog he sent ta die! Dis ain’t got nuttin ta do with vengeance, ya self-righteous, over-thinkin’ tool – it’s about justice! I’ve got half a mind ta…”

“Stop it!”

Every head turned. Downshift had yelled so loud that Jazz and Smokescreen, his guards, had taken involuntary steps back. Even Divebomb, still chained up in the witness box, flinched. The engineer had straightened up, for the first time since he’d been led into the court room. The Energon chains suddenly looked small against his powerful emerald frame. His optics were sad but determined.

“Stop it, all of you,” he said, more quietly this time. “There’s no point arguing over this. I should have said something earlier but, with Prime and the others watching, I just…”

His voice faltered, and he coughed. “Well, anyway. The point is Armourhide’s wrong – but he’s right, as well. I haven’t sold anyone out to the Terrorcons. I haven’t betrayed the Autobot cause. What I _have_ done, though, is almost get all of us killed, time and again… and I _did_ send Magnus and Snarl to their deaths.”

He sighed. “The container Sky Shadow gave me is a data file. He’s working on a device that he says will bridge the real world and the Allspark – giving the dead a pathway back to the land of the living. He thought I’d work on it with him, given my… own experiences. I… I hadn’t given him my answer, yet. But my answer was going to be yes. Before everything with Flame Convoy happened, I was going to work with him.”

Armourhide scowled.

“I don’t expect any of you to understand that,” Downshift admitted ruefully. “We’ve all lost friends before, and my reasons won’t make sense to you guys. Rodimus knows that better than most. It was just something I knew I had to do… be it a good or a bad decision, like Nightbeat said, I was going to act. I was going to save lives – even those that’d already gone. I was going to make a difference in this world… bring hope to the Autobots.”

“So you admit it,” Armourhide sneered. “Yer a slaggin’ traitor, just like I said!”

Downshift stared at the smaller Autobot. His gaze was cooler than a jet of liquid nitrogen. “If it’s traitorous to speak with the enemy, to talk with a fellow scientist no matter his allegiance, to seek to prolong life in a world where all we do, it seems, is take life, then yes. I am a traitor. Even though I changed my mind, after tangling with Nemesis Prime, I _was_ going to act not against the Autobots, but in collusion with a Terrorcon.

“And I’m a fool – I used the Star Sabre like an idiot, and almost brought the universe tumbling down around our audio sensors. I made the worst judgement call of my life in sending Magnus and Snarl out to serve as bait; as a method of distracting Flame Convoy. Hell, I tried to empty the Dead Matrix when Nemesis Prime went down, just on the chance I could free Tow-Line from it. I acted with cowardice and stupidity under fire, when everyone was relying on me… so I guess that’s a betrayal, too. A betrayal of the trust you’ve all had in me. I’m a danger to every Autobot in this universe.”

Downshift stiffened; his expression warping with pain and guilt. Despite the words he’d just heard… the affirmation of all his long-held fears… the hurt and anger he felt rising in his chest… Rodimus’ Spark went out to his former idol. He lowered his head and dimmed his optics. _There but for the grace of Primus go I,_ he thought silently. _Down a freeway to the Pit, all tarred over with the best of intentions._

When he looked up, Downshift was staring at him. “I think the humans call that ‘elocution’,” the engineer whispered, his voice hoarse. “Which means I’m changing my plea, and admitting my guilt to all the charges. Something needs to be done to take me off the game board – to stop me hurting anyone else with my dumb choices. And if this is the only way… if imprisonment is the only guaranteed method of shutting me up… then I welcome it. Because I want the pain to stop. I want the wrongness to stop. I don’t want to hurt anyone else… I don’t want to hurt _myself_ … ever again.

“You’re the only juror left, Rodimus. Please… find me guilty.”

\-----

Ultra Magnus set down on the ledge outside Starscream’s chamber. Twisting his face into a mask of humbled penitence, he stepped inside. The self-proclaimed Emperor was reclining in his throne. An unfamiliar yellow mech stood by its base.

“Ah, my consultant deigns to grace us with his presence,” Starscream crowed, clearly enjoying himself. “I trust your wanderings ‘round my base have served only to cement the utter hopelessness of your position?”

Magnus had a theory about Starscream. The “Dirge effect” served to sap one’s willpower, in turn heightening their insecurities. A strong-willed mech could resist the emotional radiation and, although struggling, continue to function more or less normally. Starscream, alone amongst all in the base, seemed totally unaffected by his faceless troops. Moreover, he was unaffected without actually being aware of their true power – he thought the unique sound of their engines generated fear, and nothing more.

A strong-willed mech could resist the effect… but a narcissistic, egotistical, self-absorbed being wouldn’t notice there was an effect to be felt. Starscream, by his very nature, _lacked_ insecurities. He was hard-wired for hubris; too deluded to ever doubt himself. While that rendered him immune, it also blinded him to the suffering of those around him… leaving his troops ripe for exploitation.

“I don’t _want_ to help you,” Magnus sighed, feigning defeat, “but I will.”

Starscream clapped. “Bravo, Autobot. Unlike some of your ilk, you can appreciate the true power of overwhelming odds and not let it drive you to foolhardy heroics. Now come, meet my ace-in-the-hole for the upcoming battle. This is Swindle.”

The yellow mech, who stood no taller than Armourhide, shot Magnus a filthy look. To the Autobot’s knowledge, he’d never come across the munitions dealer before. Indeed, he couldn’t recalled a Decepticon called “Swindle” ever being part of the enemy ranks. Perhaps he was a new creation, like the drones? If so, why the steel-melting hatred?

“Swindle is a black marketeer,” Starscream continued, one null-ray sword flicking out from an arm. “He steals weaponry from the Decepticon arsenal and sells it to other beings.” The second sword swung into place as he stood up. “A few of the pitiful human armies of this planet… a ‘terrorist cell’ or three… some ridiculous nation called Carbombia… even my old friend Predacon and his little menagerie.”

Magnus frowned. Had he arrived in time to see an execution?

The would-be emperor drew close to his soldier, waving the blades menacingly. “Yes, Swindle is a greedy, devious, lying, self-serving, traitorous pile of slag that would sell his own proto-hatcher for a dollar,” the jet frowned. “At least… that’s what everyone is _supposed_ to think.”

The swords swung back into their scabbards. Both Decepticons laughed.

“Because in truth, Magnus,” Starscream grinned, “every weapon Swindle has sold has passed out of this facility with my blessing. He’s auctioning off only the best… the best in fake, outmoded, deliberately sabotaged weaponry!”

Swindle passed Starscream a small remote control, clearly proud of himself. The jet stroked its sole button, set into its centre, with his thumb. “I thought it best you understood the nature of the tactics you need to devise for us, Ultra Magnus. When the time comes to end this Decepticon Civil War, and unite all mechs under the banner of my empire, we will not be facing an armed opponent. No, we will be going to war with a gaggle of deluded, religious freak-jobs who must first survive the _explosive detonation_ of their own weaponry!”

He grinned cruelly. “If they want to be animals, then they can fight like animals,” he sneered. “And when they’ve broken their teeth and blunted their claws on our mighty Decepticon armour, we will _eradicate_ them like the vermin they are.”

“Genocide,” Magnus fumed. “ _Again._ ”

Starscream shrugged nonchalantly. “After all these years, it’s what I do best.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I was wrong to force my ways upon this world.”

Optimus Prime looked out over the chaos. Everywhere he turned, Transformer battled Transformer. It was a conflict without the rules of engagement, tactics and strategy that had characterised the Cybertronian civil war. No, this was a struggle with no room for rules nor mercy; an escalating street fight between two groups separated not by morality, but by their incongruous senses of greed and selfishness.

He’d known it, in many senses, since the day he’d arrived on Gigalonia. Though they shared an insignia through a quirk of history, the Grounders were nothing like the Autobots. They sought to consume energy and resources with a voracious hunger rivalling that of the late Megatron; they exerted their will with less regard for smaller beings than even Shockblast.

Optimus had thought, on that long ago day, his people shared more of a kinship with the Flyers; the downtrodden mini-race of the purple planet. Time had proven him wrong there, also. Like the Decepticons, whose mark they bore, the Flyers were duplicitous and conniving. Like the Grounders, they desired nothing more than to totally consume the fruits of their world. They were the mechanical equivalent of locusts.

Transformers though they were, in terms of species, the Grounders and Flyers were not Cybertronians.

“I want you to understand, though, it was not hubris that drove me along this path,” Optimus continued. “Instead, it was a promise. To gain the power of the purple Planet Key, I made a pledge to Metroplex: that I would watch over his world in his stead. And while I have done that, the dramatic differences between our races have kept true leadership of the Grounders… and, therefore, of Gigalonia… out of my reach.”

The conflict continued – no quarter asked, nor given – just a few hundred metres away. Using his Matrix-enhanced vision, Optimus could see his Autobots struggling valiantly. Bulkhead was clearing out squadrons of spider-tanks with his rotor blades; Omega Supreme had split into his component vehicles to better tackle the onslaught.

A “second Omega” was also at work – the lifeless remnants of an ancient Omega Sentinel, dumped by the Terrorcons moments before take-off. Though the creature’s Headmaster component, and therefore its intelligence, had been destroyed, the giant Autobot had been able to take remote control of its still-operational chassis. It was an ability Omega Supreme had used well, in the days of trench warfare outside Iacon, when he’d commanded a battalion of Guardian robots based on his design. He’d lost none of his touch in the years since.

The trio worked, as a team, to stem the loss of life. Bulkhead parried the killing blows of Rapid Run and Wrecker Hook as much as he knocked back Kremzeek’s minions. The Omega twins not only held a trio of Molediver battle suits at bay; they also prevented Scavenger and Midnight Express slaughtering red, blue and yellow Flyers.

“The further the reigns drifted from my reach, the tighter I sought to grasp them,” Optimus admitted shamefully. “Perhaps, now, I better understand the forces that drove Megatron; ambition, desire, supreme confidence in one’s own ability to lead. These emotions form a slippery slope for those in power; it is all too easy to fall into a darkness from which there is no return. The darkness of tyranny.

“And though I did not plumb those depths,” he sighed heavily, “I very nearly did. Which is why I am not fit to lead this world. I will honour my promise to Metroplex by assisting it, by seeking to guide it with my influence and my example… but I will not work to control it anymore. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, and that includes the freedom to make mistakes in seeking one’s own destiny. My prayer is that your race realises its follies quickly, before more damage is done to the remains of your world.”

Optimus stooped down. In his “super mode”, combined with his trailer, he had direct access to the power of the Creation Matrix. That would be necessary for the task at hand. His ivory fingers stroked the air beside him, activating a portal to subspace. From out the shimmering haze emerged the purple Planet Key; he clutched it to his chest and looked back at the quiet form of Strika.

“You can hear me, can’t you?” he asked gently. “Had your Spark left your body, I would have felt it join with the Matrix and pass on, to the Well of All Sparks. The Flyers cannibalised your body and, unwittingly, entombed you within a near-lifeless shell. Though we disagreed more than we spoke pleasantly, Strika, I would never wish such a fate on any living being.

“My hope, now, is to end your torment and, in doing so, give this world a champion by whom it might be saved from its own excesses. That’s why I’ve spoken to you before acting, because it gives you no choice _but_ to listen to me. Having listened, perhaps you’ll learn… not only from my wisdom, but from my admission of guilt.”

As the mighty Autobot stood back up, a panel on his chest opened. Brilliant, crystalline light flooded the purple plain. The Creation Matrix was primed, sensing the task at hand. Over it did Optimus place the purple Key, using its surface as a lens. He hoped to combine two different aspects of Primus’ power – the gift of life, and the ability to alter the physical world – into a ray that would heal Strika and re-forge her shattered chassis.

“Please, let this work,” he rumbled.

At his mental command, the Matrix opened within his chest and sent forth a tight beam of blue energy. The light hit the purple Key and passed through, changing colour as it did so, and cast its brilliance over Strika’s deathly-grey form. Wherever the violet ray touched, colour sprang forth. In minutes, Strika’s body had regained its usual appearance. Her warped and damaged structure was repaired, and even seemed to strengthen; her tan colouration turned gold, with deep black and Kingfisher blue highlights. When she transformed, both her inner body and face plate were white and black… a monochromatic scheme that aped the colours of the late Metroplex.

Beneath his mask, Optimus Prime smiled. “And so the Key chooses its next guardian,” he whispered.

Strika, thousands of times taller than her saviour, rose to her feet. “I’d thank you,” she boomed, “if it weren’t for the mess you’ve made of my world. Granting succour and shelter to the enemy… feeding the vermin… your unchecked compassion nearly transformed Gigalonia into a coffin. You’re as bad as Blender; as bad as all mechs.”

Optimus rankled, but kept his calm. “Just remember what I said, Strika,” he warned. “Though I cede command of Gigalonia to you, I reserve the right to bring you back around, should you stray from the path of peace and freedom.”

The enormous femme scoffed. “Now that, I’d like to see,” she laughed. “Tell you what, Prime: I’ll do you a favour. I imagine you’d be desperate to take your leave and go save your tiny little home world from Metroplex’s ship – but your sense of duty and obligation keep you tethered to Gigalonia.”

With two needle-like fingers, she plucked the Planet Key from his hand. The device grew until it filled her entire palm. A flash of purple light swept across her form; once it had passed, her Autobot symbols had vanished. In their place was a new insignia – a skull-shaped pictogram boasting a purple radiation warning sign.

“My favour is this,” she snapped. “ _Get off my planet_. The Autobots are, from this moment, not welcome on Gigalonia. We will deal with our problems as we see fit, unburdened by your sentimentality and poor reasoning. And, when the Flyer insurrection is put down _permanently_ … then, you and I will speak again.”

Optimus glowered. “Don’t make me regret the decision I’ve made this day.”

“I’ll waste no energy worrying about your peace of mind,” Strika replied.

The Autobot commander slammed his right fist into his left palm, frustrated. This had _not_ gone according to plan – but, now, he had no choice. Early in his life, he’d sworn a debt of service to Cybertron and, later, to Earth. Those responsibilities called to him now. There would be time, in the future, to deal with Strika and her “Vehicon” sensibilities. At least, he hoped there would be.

“Autobots,” he boomed over his internal communicator. “Fall back and regroup at my location. Omega: make both yourself and the Sentinel unit ready for interstellar travel. We’re going home.”

\-----

He would _not_ let another race die because of his actions.

Ultra Magnus knew, deep in his Spark, this reaction was not the result of a “Dirge song”. Nor was it a tremor of self-doubt. This was a belief he had held from the very earliest engagements in this second Terran war. The Terrorcons – no matter the fact they were abominations – were not just living beings, they were a new form of life. A disgusting one, but still one worthy of continued existence. He’d never called for them to be wiped out, slaughtered like the animals they copied; he sought only to corral and imprison them for the good of the human race.

Starscream had to be stopped before he led the Decepticons into battle against a foe that could not fight back. And in order to stop his enemy, Magnus needed allies.

The prison block was right ahead, and the time for subtleties had passed. Magnus floored his accelerator and slammed his cab into the jailhouse doors. They flew inward, colliding with the submarine Mini-con he’d noticed earlier. The little mech’s colleagues reacted quickly; the purple-and-blue jet leaped into the air and transformed, loosing two overly-long missiles at the Autobot.

Magnus activated “Blue Bolts”, the weapons system mounted atop his trailer. With unerring accuracy, it countered the missiles with two of its own. A concentrated burst of machine gun fire, coupled with a blast of crackling electricity, dropped the Mini-con jet.

The third Mini-con – a green and purple double-crane – had taken on its robot mode and was running for an alarm panel. Magnus was faster; he transformed and snatched the mech up in his left hand. Amazingly, the Mini-con struggled back against his grip, and even managed to pry open his fingers.

“What the Unicron?” Magnus wondered aloud.

“Deepdive and Overcast were always pikers,” the crane sneered. “You won’t find Longarm such an easy target, Autobot scum!”

“Oh, please,” Magnus sighed. He shifted his grip, secured Longarm by his legs and bashed his head against the wall. The Mini-con gurgled and wheeled, but remained online. It took four more strikes – the last against the sizzling bars of Thundercracker’s holding cell – but, finally, Magnus put his tiny foe to sleep.

He made his way to the command console and deactivated the cells. Thundercracker emerged, rubbing his wrists and grinning ruefully. “That took long enough,” he quipped. “What, you get so good at picking on someone your own size that you’ve forgotten how to oppress the weak and tread on the tiny?”

“That’s your deal,” Magnus sniped back, “not mine.”

“Touché,” the ex-Decepticon saluted.

Magnus hurried into Koji’s cell. The boy looked up at him with a mixture of relief and annoyance. “Told you so,” he smiled painfully.

“Next time, I’ll listen,” Magnus nodded. “Did they ever tell you what they wanted?”

Koji turned – the back of his head had been shaved, and his scalp bore scars from some kind of equipment. “The guy with one eye said something about my Dad’s ‘powers’, and latent genetics,” he scowled. “I didn’t understand it all, I was pretty out of it.”

“Try not to think about it,” Magnus consoled him, cupping his enormous hand around the boy’s frail, scientifically-tortured body. “We’re getting out of here, right now.”

“Oh no you’re not,” said a voice from behind them.

They looked around. Alexis, the human who’d allied herself with Starscream, had blocked the entrance. She had a sabot cannon tucked under her right arm. The weapon looked out of place; Magnus got the impression she was acting out of desperation more than military acumen.

“Not this chick again,” Thundercracker sighed. “She’s a loonie, this one. Starscream’s managed to convince her we’re a bunch of invading robots, while he and the Decepticons are humans piloting advanced battle armour in a heroic, but secret, stand against the evil hordes from outer space.”

“There’s nothing crazy about me,” Alexis cried. “I’m defending my world from you metal turkeys, just like Chris said I should!”

Magnus arched an optic ridge. “Chris?”

“I’ve had it with this slag,” Thundercracker growled. He stormed across the cell block and snatched up Deepdive. In one quick motion, his wing sword disembowelled the hapless Mini-con, exposing his Spark to the world. The pulsing orb of energy instantly caught Alexis’ attention and she stared, dumbfounded, at the wriggling Transformer.

“Does this look like a human in armour to you, toots?” he demanded.

Alexis stammered. The gun shifted as her grip went slack, its barrel pointing toward the floor. She opened her mouth to say something but never had the chance – Sally Jones, her face a mask of fury, ran over and punched her in the face, knocking her out cold.

“That’s for cheating on me with a virtual man, you heinous bitch,” she thundered.

Magnus shook his head. “I’m not sure I understood _any_ of that,” he said, blinking, “but like I said, it’s time to get out of here. Koji, I need you and your aunt to climb aboard Thundercracker, so you’ll be safe, and…”

He pitched forward, almost landing on Sally and Alexis. Thundercracker, too, toppled and lost his grip on the injured Deepdive. The entire Decepticon base seemed to be listing in the water, angling upward toward the surface. Magnus made a grab for the humans and held them close to his chest for safety.

“My fellow Decepticons,” Starscream boomed over the intercom system. “My agent within the Terrorcon rebellion has sent word: the traitors to our glorious empire are about to mobilize against the humans. And while I hold no particular compassion for fleshlings, I feel this would be our most opportune moment to take to the skies and cleanse the universe of those technorganic turncoats once and for all! Make ready for lift-off, my victorious troops, and load your weapons for _annihilation_!”

“Lift-off?” Thundercracker echoed.

“Oh no,” Magnus moaned.

The Decepticons had installed windows in their cells. Erroneously, he’d thought them to be an instrument of psychological torture – prisoners would be further demoralised by seeing the unforgiving ocean surrounding them. In truth, they were another symbol of Starscream’s vanity… he wanted everyone, even his hostages, to be able to gaze upon the marvel that was his custom-made headquarters.

The foursome watched through a window as the ocean rushed past, then disappeared. For a minute, maybe more, their view was obscured by a torrent of sand, silt and the occasional palm tree. It was as if the island above them was sloughing off and falling away, back into the ocean that was, now, hundreds of feet below them.

When the view returned, Magnus could see they were above the clouds. His global positioning system, which had been cut off by the depth and pressures of the ocean, came back to life. It told him they were moving, fast, toward the downtown area of the city nearest to Fortress Maximus – the very place from which Kicker and Misha had been kidnapped, the spot where this had all began.

“Frell,” Thundercracker groused. He had one finger to his audio sensor. “You’re not going to believe this… Arcee tracked me, from when I left the base. She followed my signal to the island and was just about to exit the GSB when… well, see it for yourself.”

The ex-Decepticon’s holo-matter avatar appeared, then reformed into a pictographic display. Arcee was, obviously, transmitting images to her life partner from her own optical system. The picture was shaky, but still managed to show a massive head-shaped star cruiser… a monstrous Grand Mal… rise into the air and take off.

“Now what?” Koji asked. The boy’s face was ashen – he was very, very frightened.

Magnus’ rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

\-----

“Dunno whether Rodimus would want ta help ya with that,” drawled a voice from the other side of the court room, “but fact is, it don’t matter none anyway. ‘Cause he can’t find ya guilty, Downshift. Not anymore.”

The cavalier, and everyone else, looked toward the command chair. Scattorshot had ordered the seat to descend and bring him back to ground level. The diminutive Autobot… second-in-command of the RIDs… stood up and met their collective gaze.

“Accordin’ to th’ rules of Autobot military justice,” he said in his thick Tyrestian accent, “when there’s no quorum of jurors about the place, th’ right t’ make a decision defaults back to the judge. That’d be me. And there ain’t nothin’ I’ve heard today – not even in that there pretty little elocution Downshift made – that’d make me believe our engineer is guilty of treason.”

Armourhide went red. Nightbeat, Jazz and the others started smiling. Zapmaster, the scrappy little punk, broke out in a dance until Checkpoint slapped him across the back of his cranial casing.

“Now, I ain’t saying Downshift’s done nothin’ wrong,” Scattorshot continued, his lazy speech belying his seriousness. “Is there plenty of scope here for disciplinary action? My word, yes. An’ will I recommend he drop down the chain o’ command somewhat, on account o’ his decisions putting lives in jeopardy time and again? Abso-freaking-lutely. Ain’t none of that treasonous, though. Ain’t none of that th’ actions o’ a Decepticon sympathiser. Ain’t none of that what Armourhide believes happened. So: case closed.”

The commando crossed the room in less than two seconds. Though small, he stood head and shoulders over the far-sighted tank. “Now you listen ta me, squirt, an’ you listen carefully,” he fumed. “Dis ain’t da end o’ da trial. Dis here is whatcha call a miscarriage of justice – maybe even a slaggin’ mistrial! I _demand_ you shove Downshift back inta da cells until we can get the quorum back on da horn, and den we’ll sort dis whole t’ing out good and proper! You understand me?”

“I don’t recall offerin’ you a platform for yer opinion, soldier,” Scattorshot boomed. The fury in his voice… its volume and power… took everyone aback. “And I’ll thank y’ to remember yer speakin’ t’ your commanding officer! I hear that kind’a crass insubordination in my unit again, and you’ll be cleanin’ th’ waste disposal units fer the next three vorns!”

To Rodimus’ amazement, Armourhide actually backed down.

“What you gotta understand, Armourhide, is that Downshift ain’t done a damn thing wrong,” Scattorshot continued, still yelling. “If Optimus _hadda_ been here, to hear th’ rest o’ yer so-called case, he’d have acquitted Downshift faster’n I did! Our engineering friend did somethin’ alla us should try, one o’ these days – he _opened a dialogue_ with th’ enemy! He sought a peaceful solution t’ a mutual problem, an’ worked to make life better fer everyone! Yer personal hatreds and prejudices might blind _you_ ta that, but th’ rest of us know we just heard the Autobot ideal personified!”

Pushing the dumbstruck commando aside, Scattorshot made his way to the prisoner. He held out one golden hand and, from Jazz, took the keys to the Energon manacles. They unlocked with a click and fell to the ground, then evaporated as per their design.

Downshift, weak from lack of energy, slumped forward – Scattorshot caught him. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rodimus leaped from the jury box and sprinted over, helping to support the engineer’s weight.

“Ah’m sorry, buddy, but I couldn’ta done more earlier,” Scattorshot apologised. “It just hadda play out this way, no matter what I thought.”

Downshift looked gratefully at his little friend. “Thank you,” he rasped, “oh, thank you. I don’t know what I can do to…”

“Restore my faith in ya,” Scattorshot interrupted solemnly. “Prove that I’m wrong t’ discipline ya. That’ll be thanks enough.”

Rodimus smiled. “You’ve already done a lot to restore my faith,” he nodded. “Even if it had been left up to me, the decision would still have been the same.”

Downshift’s optics clouded with static – the Transformer equivalent of tears. He rested against his friends, letting them drag him to the jury pool. Rodimus sat him down on what had been his own chair, symbolically taking him out of the Autobot justice system.

Scattorshot looked at the gathered Autobots. “Fer 10 years, now, I’ve been watchin’ this team slowly fall apart,” he said. “I know Magnus did his best t’ keep us together but, lacking a common enemy, we all sorta drifted away from our ideals… an’ each other. I waited fer a while, n case th’ Terrorcon threat galvanised us inta a unit again. But it didn’t happen like that. If anything, it just made us all worse.

“It’s time that stopped, right now. Magnus might well’a given his life fer all of us, an’ he’d want us t’ live up t’ the potential he always saw. Some’a you might say I’ve made a career outta meeting Magnus’ expectations – it’s a fair call, an’ I’ll cop to it. Because’a that, ain’t no way today’s gonna be any different. Starting, like I said, right now, we’re _all_ gonna be the mechs Magnus wanted us t’ be, and ain’t nothing gonna distract us from doing the right thing. The _Autobot_ thing.”

As Rodimus watched… no, _admired_ … the smaller mech, a fragment of memory spun through his processor. _“When your moment comes, you will be alone in the world save for one true friend; one close companion with whom you can entrust your life,” Evac had said, after the second Speedia conflict. “Vector Prime had me. Optimus Prime has Ultra Magnus. And Rodimus Prime… well, he will have his own second, his own trusted friend who will be there, until the very end, no matter the risk or danger. But even he will not be able to shoulder the five-fold burden that will be yours.”_

For the longest time, Rodimus thought the ancient Transformer’s ghost had been talking about Blur. Now… having listened to Scattorshot… he knew who Evac had meant.

“Distract us?” Smokescreen said suddenly. “Distract us?” His head had snapped up; his optics were wide beneath his visor. “Spawn of Unicron!”

The diversionary tactician folded up into a blue-and-red Bugatti and tore off, headed for the elevators. Jazz, his expression quizzical, followed. Armourhide and Nightbeat jostled each other out of the way, trying to tag along; Rodimus and Scattorshot joined the queue at the end of the chaos.

“That was some speech, little Magnus,” Rodimus smiled.

“Aw shucks,” Scattorshot winked. “Weren’t nothing… little Prime.”

They caught up to Smokescreen in the med bay. He was, unbelievably, tearing at the machinery that kept Ultra Magnus alive. Jazz had already tried to crash-tackle his twin and failed; Nightbeat and Checkpoint were now trying to block the manic Bugatti from the master control switch.

Without warning, a thick cloud of “smart smoke” billowed into the room and clung to all of the Autobots. Even with his Matrix-enhanced vision, Rodimus could only just see Smokescreen manoeuvre past his flailing comrades and shut off the life-support.

“Primus damn it,” Armourhide yelled. “Is every mech in dis place a slaggin’ traitor?”

“What have you done?” Scattorshot bellowed.

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” Smokescreen said, triumphantly. “And that’s realised this blasted thing was nothing more than a _dupe_ of Magnus, left for us to find so we didn’t ask questions!”

Everyone fell silent.

“Uh… what?” Checkpoint finally asked.

Smokescreen slapped his forehead. “It’s a _clone_ , you idiots,” he yelled, exasperated. “A decoy, a copy, a non-living structure with a fake Spark inside! A frelling _diversion_. It’s not even a real protoform, just a duplicate of Magnus’ body with a chunk of Spark energy stuck in its chest! That’s why we haven’t been able to revive it… there’s nothing slagging well there to bring online!”

Rodimus nodded. “He’s right,” he said, furious with himself. “He’s totally right. I couldn’t commune with Magnus’ Spark, when I tried, because _this isn’t it._ ”

“And the crime scene,” Nightbeat muttered, “was far, _far_ too clean. Too neat and orderly. Just like this clone, here, it was a set-up. Whoever’s behind all this wanted us to find a disturbing murder scene, wanted to shift our focus onto saving ‘Magnus’.”

“He could still be alive,” Jazz breathed. “The real Magnus, I mean. An’ Snarl, too.”

“Absolutely,” Nightbeat agreed. “We’ve been played for rubes.”

“By who?” Armourhide demanded.

Scattorshot coughed, attracting everyone’s attention. “That’s what we’re gonna find out. Lock an’ load, boys… it’s time ta roll out.”

\-----

Wheeljack seethed.

He paid little attention to Sky Shadow, who was obsessing over his precious machine. Crumplezone and Wind Shear were at street level, killing every human they saw. The Terrorcons had never made a secret of their presence on Earth and now, with the Autobots about to be drawn out of hiding, they were even less inclined to be subtle.

Wheeljack desperately wanted the Autobots to hurry up and arrive. He wanted to kill an Autobot very, very badly.

It had been 10 long years since he’d been able to relish in a kill. Since he’d had time to slowly, painfully extinguish a Spark. He’d thought Nightbeat’s crew would be his first candidates – the opening notes in a new symphony of suffering – but they’d punked him out, played Crumplezone for a fool and scampered away. Crumplezone had, again, been his downfall on the oil rig. Jazz and Smokescreen would have made _wonderful_ trophies… well, their heads… but, again, he was foiled.

The lust in him, the need to kill… it was overpowering. He’d been denied, twice, the chance to stab his batons through that hated Autobot symbol. Wheeljack felt frustrated, out of sorts. It was hard to get his systems up and running. It was a struggle to concentrate on anything save murder. He just… wanted… to _end some lives_!

And Predaking; oh, that loathsome lizard had only made things worse. Any scrap of goodwill Wheeljack had felt toward the zealot, for freeing him and Crumplezone from the Autobots’ prison, had been flushed away. How dare he talk down to Wheeljack like that – in front of the other Terrorcons no less? Humiliation mixed with his murderous longings, stirring a frenzied tempest within his Spark.

He wanted Sky Shadow to hurry up. He wanted the machine to come online. He wanted to know where the Autobots were, and he wanted to slaughter every last one of them.

“It’s done,” Sky Shadow intoned. “We’re ready.” The bat-winged scientist walked over to where Wheeljack sat. He peered down at the street and muttered distastefully. “I fail to see what harming the humans, right now, accomplishes.”

Wheeljack grinned malevolently. “Pre-game show,” he said.

Sky Shadow wrinkled his olfactory sensor and went back to his machine. It was a large, tapered tube – wider at the bottom than at the top – boasting all manner of wires, cables and hoses. A clear window, in its centre, displayed Armourhide’s severed limb, which was floating in an amber fluid. The device was topped with a silver broadcasting dish, which had been aimed at the foreshore – the spot where the GSB re-entered “real space”.

“Predaking made a few last-minute alterations to this,” the larger mech said, an edge of concern in his voice. “I’m confident it will work as I designed it, however. The radiation will flow out of the arm, through the conduits and out the dish. Once it has made its way through the GSB, there will be no place left in which the Autobots can hide.”

“Nor survive,” Wheeljack said savouring the mental images that formed.

The scientist fussed over the device one last time, then wrapped his ebony hand around a long lever. “It is done,” he said, pulling down.

The machine began to hum, almost inaudibly. The amber fluid around the limb bubbled and frothed; suddenly it turned red and crackled with crimson lightning. Each one of the conduits and cables jumped as they filled with energy, and the dish… did nothing.

“I don’t understand,” Sky Shadow mused. “It’s not working properly. I…”

With a loud _boom_ , the device vomited lightning from out the dish, funnelling it into the GSB. Unexpectedly, it vented a second torrent of red energy _downwards_ , into the geodesic dome upon which they stood. The reflective science centre glowed like a ruby, then fired hundreds of triangular-shaped beams into the air, earth and water. Red bolts met blue sky and turned it _white_ , as if systematically erasing the atmosphere around planet Earth. The sun vanished, wiped out by a stabbing finger of energy; clouds appeared to melt and trickle across the heavens, blanking out the universe.

In the space of seconds, everything around Earth turned white…and chaos erupted.

_**Transformers: RID** will conclude in **Countdown to Extinction**!_


End file.
